


Dedication

by strange_seas



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Writer!AU, ballet!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_seas/pseuds/strange_seas
Summary: Heartbroken Park Chanyeol is struggling with writer's block when he meets a magnetic young dancer on the mend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal on June 9, 2015. Shades of homophobia. (And girlfriends. Lots of girlfriends.)

"Couples night?" Chanyeol grips the base of his beer and settles into his chair, laughing. "You've dragged me out to couples night?"  
  
Four beaming faces crowd around him. The skin of each one is golden-lit by the candles on their table--al fresco, but not too close to the sidewalk. This is Chanyeol's favorite café bar in Hongdae, and he suspects the choice was not a coincidence.  
  
"It's your own damn fault," Jongdae snorts at him. "I had to lie and say it was someone's  _birthday_ to tear you away from your laptop."  
  
"What lie? It  _is_ someone's birthday," Chanyeol says, turning to Sunyoung for support. "Right, kiddo?"  
  
Jongdae had stated it explicitly in his tenth Line this morning, when the first nine had gone unanswered.  _It's my girlfriend's birthday, you tortured writer bastard. Come out of your cave._  Then came the eleventh message. _I haven't seen proof of life in a month!!!_  
  
Chanyeol smiles at Sunyoung, expecting a pat on the head. He's always been a kind of pet of hers, despite the fact that he's three years older and about fifty inches taller.  
  
Instead, Sunyoung sends him a comical grimace, her mouth rectangular. She shrugs noncommittally, like the very first time Chanyeol had caught her holding hands with Jongdae on a coffee run. The look in her eyes is withholding and relenting at once, the same way it had been back then.  
  
Chanyeol purses his lips. "Sunyoung?"  
  
Yixing hooks his chin over Song Qian's shoulder. "It was two days ago."  
  
From where she's sitting in Yixing's lap, Song Qian pokes out a finger and pushes it into Chanyeol's cheek. "Dummy," she whispers in that wonky accent of hers (the very one that makes Yixing pop a dimple).  
  
"Oh,  _shit_ ," Chanyeol mutters. In a second, he's roping his long arms around Sunyoung for a hug and bellowing, "Belated happy birthdaaay!" He squeezes her tight, swaying her from side to side, like he wants to jostle any inkling of indignation right out of her.  
  
Jongdae protests in the background ("Hey. Hey! Let go!"). But Sunyoung only giggles and hugs Chanyeol back. She pats him on the head, too, so Chanyeol knows he's forgiven.  
  
He pulls back when Jongdae starts flicking polka dots into his forearm. "I'm sorry I forgot, Sunyoung-ah."  
  
Sunyoung waves off the apology. "It's fine. Oppa here--" she points in Jongdae's direction, "--told me to lay on the guilt. But I know you're knee-deep in research for the new book, so I don't mind one bit."  
  
_More like neck-deep in writer's block_ , Chanyeol thinks to himself forlornly. He rubs at the most tender spot on his arm, elbowing Jongdae when he tries to flick it again. "Remind me how young you are?"  
  
"Twenty-five," Sunyoung sighs. "There's no turning back now, oppa. Next year, I'll be in my late twenties."  
  
"I've been in my late twenties for three whole years," he singsongs back, wiggling his shoulders in a spontaneous little dance. "My back's probably going to give out soon. Then my knees. Then my teeth."  
  
Sunyoung and Song Qian burst into laughter simultaneously. Chanyeol feels a grin snap across his face. He loves the music of it--girls laughing. Loud or soft, a soloist or a symphony of them, always like the sound of splashing water.  
  
Jongdae flings a French fry at him. "Don't flirt." The fry misses Chanyeol's chin by a centimeter, landing on his jeans with a limp plop.  
  
Chanyeol places it into his mouth. "I'm not flirting, you nut."  
  
"You're smiling your handsome smile," Yixing puts in, lips puffing. "I don't one hundred percent approve of it?"  
  
"All my smiles are handsome," Chanyeol replies, sweet and guileless. He plucks a second fry from Yixing's plate, and Song Qian coos at him like he's a hungry puppy.  
  
It's likely Yixing doesn't approve of that, either, because he worms a wet finger into Chanyeol's ear.  
  
Chanyeol has always been so, so ticklish.  
  
He curses in a yelp, leaping out of his seat. "Hyung!" Both palms fuse over his ear--armor--as Jongdae collapses into a bed of cackles.  
  
Yixing sparkles at him. "That's what you get~" His dimples are so deep. Chanyeol contemplates squirting ketchup into them.  
  
Song Qian wrinkles her nose. She dabs at Yixing's finger with one of the wipes the server has left on their table, then stuffs the used sheet back into its torn package. Every fiber of her expression quivers with the suspicion that Yixing's gotten earwax residue all over himself.  
  
It makes Chanyeol chuckle, albeit reluctantly. Girls are so squeamish--even the sexy, sassy types like Song Qian--and he finds it adorable. He sticks his own finger into the same ear, trying to rub out the traces of Yixing's attack.  
  
Jongdae's still laughing. "I'm getting another beer, you want one?"  
  
Chanyeol climbs back into his seat, rolling his eyes at Yixing but clinking the necks of their beers together, anyway. "Sure, why not."  
  
"Oh, there--" Sunyoung says suddenly, her arm shooting up to wave at someone over Chanyeol's shoulder. "Oppa," she addresses him in a low aside. "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Soojung."  
  
Chanyeol's entire mouth goes cottony.  
  
He only used to kiss her deeply in dark movie theaters and pull her naked into the shower, where she would wrap her arms and legs and lips around him. He only used to hold her soft, makeup-less face between his hands first thing in the morning, and weave her fingers into his whenever her cat had to go to the vet, and tell her, as she laughed and licked his jaw in the ladies' room of a bar, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.  
  
She was just the girl who'd broken up with him four months ago, after three years together, because she felt they'd run their course.  
  
Just the muse that Chanyeol had lost, and the reason he hasn't managed to get started on his new book, despite the increasingly frantic, coaxing tone his editor's emails have taken on.  
  
Just the one that got away.  
  
"That's all right," he murmurs back, and he forces himself to smile at Sunyoung. "She's your best friend. Of course she should be here."  
  
"Don't leave, okay?" Sunyoung squeezes his wrist. "Jongdae-oppa was so happy you came tonight. He hasn't--none of us have seen you around much, really. Not since..."  
  
She trails off there, but Chanyeol knows exactly what she means.  
  
"I won't leave, Sunyoung-ah." He makes sure to use his handsome smile for real this time--the wide one with a crook to it that he breaks out for portraits and TV interviews. "Jongdae-oppa would disown me, otherwise."  
  
Soojung's standing right behind Sunyoung now. Her loose, sheer dress and slightly windblown hair make her seem even more delicate than Chanyeol remembers. Dreamlike, even. Or maybe he just misses her.  
  
Soojung hugs her friend and hands her a present wrapped in pretty striped paper.  
  
When she finally looks at Chanyeol, her eyes are nervous. "Hi, oppa."  
  
"Hi," Chanyeol murmurs, smile melting away, drop by bittersweet drop. "Long time no see."  
  
  
  
  
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Jongdae chirps a week later, when he shows up at Chanyeol's apartment unannounced. He comes bearing lunch, at least, so Chanyeol lets him in.  
  
"What?" Chanyeol asks halfheartedly. He peers into the bag of food Jongdae's brought with him. Tempura bento boxes. Yum.  
  
"You  _know_ what." Jongdae's tone is both impatient and affectionate. It's a unique sound, a bit nasal, that Chanyeol has come to associate with only him, like a smell or a footstep.  
  
"Use your words, Jongdae," he teases his friend. But he can already tell by the lilt in Jongdae's voice that this is about Soojung.  
  
At the café bar, they'd sat side by side for two hours and spoken to their friends and to one another, catching up and smiling softly and laughing lightly but not touching at all. It had felt...unnatural to Chanyeol. Unnatural, and a little unnerving. Because for the three years they'd dated, Soojung had always done something small and warm and subtle to invade his space. Hand on the back of his neck. Pinky looped into his under the table. Temple pressed against his shoulder. Chanyeol had flourished under the attention, every time, because it made him feel wanted.  
  
_But she doesn't want you anymore,_  he'd reminded himself when he'd gotten home that night.  _You're just an ex-boyfriend with joint friend custody._  
  
"You and Soojung--"  
  
"Still broken up," Chanyeol says casually. He starts lifting the food containers out of the takeout bag.  
  
"Did she message you afterwards?" Jongdae's tone shifts to one of uncertainty.  
  
"Why would she?"  
  
"Did you message her?"  
  
In total, there are three bento boxes on Chanyeol's coffee table. "No, I didn't," he tells Jongdae. "Is Sunyoung coming over?"  
  
"What?" Jongdae blinks at him before he notices the extra bento box Chanyeol is tapping with his index finger.  
  
"Ah, no, that's not for her." He packs it back into the food bag, along with the third pair of chopsticks and a few napkins. "I'm seeing my cousin after this. He's laid up at Seoul St. Mary's."  
  
"The hospital?" Chanyeol folds his legs under him and lifts the lid off one of the boxes. The burst of seafood, soy sauce, and miso smells make his mouth water. "Is he okay?"  
  
Jongdae plops down next to him, splitting a pair of chopsticks. "Broke his ankle. He's fine." Jongdae mulls over his rice. "But he's a dancer, so he's a little depressed about it?"  
  
Chanyeol nods, biting into a piece of shrimp. The Japanese breadcrumbs yield between his teeth with a satisfying crunch. "How long do those things take to heal, more or less?"  
  
"Six to eight weeks." Jongdae gets up again, making his way to the fridge. Chanyeol was too focused on getting the food out to prepare the water. "But judging by this break," Jongdae says over his shoulder, "and the fact that Jongin plans to hit the ground running post-recovery, the doc says he's looking at twelve."  
  
"Oof."  
  
"I know. And he's such a good kid, too, so I feel bad." Jongdae is padding back again, two bottles of Eau in his grasp. (Chanyeol always buys his water from the Paris Baguette across the street, because he likes how the bottles look like giant aspirin capsules.)  
  
"His parents live in Goyang," Jongdae continues, "and his sisters both married British guys and moved abroad. I'm the only family he's got in the city, so I need to keep him occupied."  
  
Chanyeol takes his share of the water. "Thanks, man." Jongdae slides back down into his spot with a prolonged  _aigoo~_ , and Chanyeol laughs when his knees crick. "His name's Jongin?"  
  
"Yeah. Kim Jongin. Dad's side." Jongdae picks up some pickled cabbage and shakes it in Chanyeol's face. "You should see this kid, Yeol. He's a prince. He's even better-looking than Joonmyun-hyung."  
  
Chanyeol shapes his mouth into a small  _o_. Their favorite senior at university (now a producer at the radio station where Jongdae works) has always looked like a primetime drama lead. The  _o_ stretches into a grin. "Has Sunyoung met him?"  
  
"How dumb do you think I am?" Jongdae jokes in a high-pitched voice, and they both chortle, bumping shoulders.  
  
They sit like that for a spell, munching on their lunch and enjoying the comfortable silence. Chanyeol almost forgets they were talking about something else before Jongdae's cousin came up out of the blue.  
  
The thought seems to occur to Jongdae at the exact same moment.  
  
"So about the dreaded ex," Jongdae starts, washing down a mouthful of tempura.  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"You know I'll always be on your side, Yeol. No matter what."  
  
"I know, Jongdae."  
  
"If you want me to tell Sunyoung that Soojung can't come out with us when you do, I'll tell her."  
  
Chanyeol chuckles, touched, even though the sound of her name makes his heart do a tiny, painful flip. "Nah. No need for that. I can handle it."  
  
"Sure?" Jongdae looks a little relieved, in spite of his bravado.  
  
"I mean...yeah. Yeah. And besides," Chanyeol licks his lips, a little embarrassed, "maybe if I start seeing her around more often, talking to her again, and all that--I dunno, maybe it'll help me finally draft this sorry excuse for a novel."  
  
"Your novel isn't sorry," Jongdae says gently. "It's just stalled." And then, in a quiet, curious voice: "Can't you write about anyone else?"  
  
Half the food in Chanyeol's bento box is untouched, but suddenly he isn't hungry anymore. He smiles at Jongdae, and the ruefulness in it is a physical sensation, like the stroke of a fingertip over the seam of his lips.  
  
"How?"  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol's first novel had been a light, sweet, gossamer thing about a young boy with the ability to fly, suddenly falling in love with the blind girl across the street.  
  
He'd just met Soojung then, when she was a fledgling stylist without a magazine cover to her name, and he a junior staffwriter for  _Esquire_ , occasionally doing freelance work for their sister titles. They'd been introduced at a shoot for  _Cosmopolitan_ , where Soojung got her first big break dressing Yoon Eun Hye. Chanyeol had taken one look at her--this wispy, resolute girl with sweat on her forehead from steaming racks of expensive clothes--and he'd asked Yoon Eun Hye the exact same interview question, twice.  
  
They'd gone to Lotte World on their first date. Chanyeol was bumbling and awkward, despite the fact that he'd asked Soojung out the week before without so much as an eye twitch. On the other hand, Soojung had breezed through the afternoon--little red skirt, twenty-two-year-old dauntlessness. She'd slipped her hand into Chanyeol's after an hour or so and pulled him into the queue for the French Revolution, never letting go. The touch had made every inch of his skin tingle. Chanyeol had watched her, spellbound on the rollercoaster, as Soojung shut her eyes and screamed with delight. The idea just came to him. A boy in flight, with a girl in his arms; she unable to see the city beneath them, but feeling the rush and thrill of it, anyway, like the wind against her face.  
  
It only took six months of writing after work, in the wee hours of the morning, and every free minute that wasn't spent in Soojung's company on the weekends, for Chanyeol to complete the novel.  _Float_ , he titled it. By the time it was published, Chanyeol was a week into twenty-five, and Soojung his official girlfriend of sixty days. The dedication on the third page read, simply,  _For S._  
  
Chanyeol's second novel had taken a little longer to write.  _Float_ had done well enough that he'd been able to quit his job at the magazine to write fiction fulltime. There were interviews and pictorials and a book tour--and on top of that, a hefty advance from his publisher for the follow-up novel.  
  
He'd taken Soojung to Jeju-do with the first of his book money. He'd been really proud about it, too--that he could put her up at a fancy hotel, in a spacious room smelling of lavender and fresh linen, with a floor-to-ceiling view of the sea's endless blue roll. The trip itself had been cheesy and wonderful; the pair of them dressed in matching nautical wear, taking turns asking strangers to photograph them together. They'd gone to see the vivid yellow blanket of the  _yuchae_ fields, the  _dol hareubang_  sculptures carved from basalt lining the coast, the Cheonjiyeon Waterfall. It was evening when Soojung kissed him by the falls and told him she loved him, the night lights illuminating the rock face behind, all sooty bronze and seagreen. Chanyeol had never felt this way before--like he was living inside a dream.  
  
_Pool_ was what he'd named the manuscript, a year later. This one was, like his first novel, a sort of fairytale. A mermaid living in an underwater cave below a lighted waterfall encounters the man maintaining the lights. He is a middle-aged widower, and she the only creature of her kind, and they are both starved for companionship. The story is another romance, but this one ends in tragedy, unlike  _Float_. The man falls ill one brutal winter and never recovers, and the immortal mermaid waits and waits and waits for his return, unable to leave the pool below the falls.  
  
"That's really fucking sad," Jongdae had mumbled after he'd read the final draft. "But it was amazing, Yeol." He'd just split up with his girlfriend at the time, and Chanyeol had been extra gentle and attentive with him. (Later, Soojung would put the idea in Chanyeol's head to set Jongdae up with her "super perfect, super gorgeous, super smart best friend," broker Park Sunyoung, whom Chanyeol super liked already.)  
  
_Pool_ 's dedication had been split into two lines:  
  
_For Jongdae, just because.  
And for Soojung (you know why.)_  
  
That was the last book Chanyeol had put out, when he was just under twenty-seven. It made him quite the literary star--"the dashing new face of magical realism," as  _GQ_ put it. His publisher had tripled his next advance in anticipation of the next critically-acclaimed bestseller. Chanyeol had whisked Soojung away to Taiwan for a week--their first and only trip abroad.  
  
In the fall, a few weeks shy of Chanyeol's twenty-eighth birthday, when every leaf in Seoul had roasted itself to autumnal perfection, Soojung sat him down.  
  
They'd had a fight a few days before--a big one, about nothing. Chanyeol wanting to shut himself in all the time, with just Soojung and Kawaii the cat for company, flirting with ideas for his third novel. Her wanting to go out more--see her friends, try new things, bring him along for all the fun.  
  
Chanyeol had actually thought the talk was to make up with him. Not that he was mad. He couldn't stay mad at her for more than an hour, tops, before second-guessing himself.  
  
Soojung's hair had been loose, falling unbrushed over her shoulders. Her woolly cardigan had been a deep red; her lips pale and chapped.  
  
"Oppa," she'd said, voice trembling, "I think we should break up."  
  
He'd been stunned. In an instant, he was telling her he was sorry, drawing her hand into both of his and bending low to see her eyes. "It was my fault," he'd reassured her, rubbing the soft skin of her hand between his palms to warm it up. "I know I'm difficult and boring. I'm sorry. I'll try harder, okay? I promise to try harder."  
  
She'd started to cry then, and he'd tried to wipe the tears from her face. But Soojung had pulled away. Her hand, too.  
  
She'd explained to him how she felt like they were stuck,  _had been_  stuck for a long time now. How she needed more than familiarity and comfort and the ease of routine--all good things, but not quite enough. Passion, she'd said. They didn't have passion.  
  
"We have plenty of passion," Chanyeol had refuted her, desperately. "What are you saying? I write  _books_  about you because of it."  
  
"Don't you get it?" she'd asked him, rhetorically, eyes red-rimmed. "You reinvent me in your books, but in reality, you have no idea who I am anymore."  
  
Chanyeol had taken her face between his hands. "You're my girl, Soojung." It'd felt like there was a dotted line down the middle of his chest, marking skin and muscle, and each word out of Soojung's mouth was tearing one dash from the other.  
  
She'd started sobbing silently, trying to wrest out of his hold at first. She'd given up when Chanyeol kissed her on the forehead. A last-ditch effort.  
  
"Oppa," she'd pleaded with him. "Please."  
  
It ended with Chanyeol at his own kitchen table, gutted and alone, staring at the silver couple ring Soojung had pressed into his palm right before she'd left.  
  
That was four months ago, closing in on five.  
  
Chanyeol hasn't written a word since.  
  
  
  
  
His phone rings on a Tuesday, at half past noon. Chanyeol has spent the morning watching cute animal videos on Youtube, avoiding the paltry folder of notes and images on his desktop that's supposedly there to "inspire" him.  
  
"Yeol-ah," Jongdae's brassy voice greets him, more cajoling than usual. "I need a favor."  
  
That's how Chanyeol finds himself at Seoul St. Mary's with a bag of Japanese takeout, asking the nurse at the visitor's reception if he's in the right wing for Room 114.  
  
The hospital corridors are painted a calm mint green, with faux wood flooring and a sterile smell, not entirely unpleasant. Chanyeol's beat-up Vans squeak quietly as he rounds a corner and finally sees the right name on the right door.  
  
He knocks first. When there is no answer, he pushes the door open. A curtain separates the entry from the rest of the room.  
  
"Hyung?" mumbles a groggy voice on the other side of the curtain. "I smell something good."  
  
Chanyeol pushes the thin fabric aside. "Jongdae had a work emergency," he says. "He sent me over with your lunch."  
  
A face, half-asleep, turns to look at him. Surprise registers slowly over smooth, tanned features, like a candle flickering to life.  
  
The young man props himself up by the elbows. His dark hair is puffed up and mushroomy, and there's a tiny curl to his mouth.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir," he says, with a polite dip of the head. He rubs his eyes. "I thought you were him."  
  
Chanyeol smiles, feeling the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.  _Sir._  "Just hyung," he corrects the patient, noticing for the first time the long, bare leg elevated at the ankle. "I'm Park Chanyeol. Jongdae's friend."  
  
"Ah," is the immediate, comprehending response. "Best friend Yeol."  
  
"That's me." Chanyeol places the takeout on the table by the wall. "And you're baby cousin Jongin."  
  
The young man leans back into his pillows, folding his arms over his stomach. "That's me." He has soft eyes, like the panda cubs Chanyeol was cooing over before Jongdae called. "Still the maknae at twenty-five."  
  
"You hungry, maknae?" Chanyeol scoops out a bento box, holds it out. "It's tempura."  
  
"Yes, hyung," Kim Jongin says, and he smiles in a funny, childlike way that reminds Chanyeol so much of his cousin.  
  
Chanyeol presses the button that inclines the bed, arranging the pillows behind Jongin so he can sit comfortably. Then he sets up the tray table and places the bento box on it, together with utensils and a cup of water. It's a tricky job, considering he has to navigate around an elevated leg in a sling. The younger man watches him patiently, allowing himself to be shifted around and tucked back in around the edges.  
  
Chanyeol tosses the cling wrap covering the miso soup and tempura dipping sauce back into the takeout bag, along with chopsticks' wrapper. "All done," he declares. "Enjoy your lunch, Jongin."  
  
Baby panda eyes blink back at him. "You're not eating?"  
  
"I only got the one order for you," Chanyeol replies. "Go ahead."  
  
"Thank you," Jongin murmurs. "The food here is pretty inedible." He sticks his chopsticks into the top of his rice, bringing a tiny, sticky scoop of it into his mouth. "Are you leaving?"  
  
The way he says it, much too nonchalant, makes it seem like he doesn't want to be left alone.  
  
"I don't have to." Chanyeol takes off his cap, runs his fingers through matted hair, and puts the cap on backwards again, just as it was. "Want some company?"  
  
Jongin gnaws on the tips of his chopsticks, contemplative. "If you aren't too busy," he answers, finally. "Sorry, I wouldn't usually...it's just so dull in this hospital, and the only time I get to talk to someone who isn't a  _healer_ is when Jongdae-hyung comes to see me on his lunch break. Or after work, if I'm still awake."  
  
He licks his lips, somewhat bothered, and Chanyeol can tell this twenty-five-year-old maknae doesn't ramble very often.  
  
"I don't have anywhere to be," he replies, sinking into the seat by the bed. It squeaks loudly under the weight of his body, and he thinks he hears Jongin chuckle.  
  
"Cool," the younger man ripostes, all better now. He plucks a limb of tempura from the bouquet in his bento and halves it in one bite. "I've read  _Float_ , by the way." He flushes down the mouthful with a sip of miso. "Jongdae-hyung brought me a copy the day after he checked me in."  
  
"Oh?" Chanyeol wasn't expecting that. He scratches the strip of forehead caught beneath the adjuster of his snapback. "What did you think?"  
  
"It was really great. Feel-good great." Jongin's smile is teasing, like he doesn't want Chanyeol to find him too serious, but his eyes are plain and earnest. "I think you're my new favorite writer, Park Chanyeol-sshi."  
  
"Flattery to break the ice." Chanyeol grins, already charmed. "That's so Jongdae of you."  
  
Jongin grins, too, the white slice of it askew. "I'm better at it though, aren't I, Writer-nim?"  
  
_Cute_ , Chanyeol thinks to himself, the word materializing like an object from underwater. Before he knows it, he's mussing up Jongin's hair with the digits on his right hand.  
  
Jongin doesn't flinch. He only throws up a V sign, expression amusingly placid.  
  
"Just hyung, all right?" Chanyeol extricates his fingers from the mushroom mop. He reaches for the remote. "Now eat your food before Jongdae calls to check."  
  
"Let's watch  _Running Man_ ," Jongin says, pouring tempura sauce over his rice. "It's on right about now."  
  
They catch two episodes back to back. When Chanyeol leaves, he brings the empty takeout containers with him.  
  
"Get well soon," he tells the manboy with the broken ankle.  
  
In return, he's served a sleepy "Thanks, hyung," followed by another one of those crooked grins.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol gets an invitation from Jongdae three days later, on their Line thread.  
  
_Jongin asked about you,_  the message reads.  _Come visit tomorrow. I've got the day off, and I'm introducing him to Sunyoung._  
  
_Bad idea,_  Chanyeol replies.  _Baby cousin Jongin obliterates you in the looks department._  
  
_Get in line, Yeol,_  Jongdae sends back.  _Half of Seoul is in love with him, too._  
  
Chanyeol replies with five different poo stickers.  _This is you._  
  
_Miss you,_ Jongdae says, dispatching a kiss mark.  _Room 114, lunchtime. I'll take care of the food._  
  
  
  
  
It's Jongin's eighth day in his germ-free hospital room, and Chanyeol can already tell he's going stir-crazy. There are doodles all over his cast that weren't there the last time. Superhero logos and tiny mazes and unfamiliar names with emojis next to them; some bestowed by dancer friends who've come to visit him, others requested by Jongin of his nurses out of sheer boredom. When Chanyeol walks in, Jongdae's scrawling a Pororo in green marker right above the big toe.  
  
"Hey kids," Chanyeol says pleasantly.  
  
The TV's on, so it's strange that Jongin looks up from a book. "Hey."  
  
"Finally," Jongdae drawls. He, on the other hand, does not look up. Pororo takes precedence over regular old best friends.  
  
Sunyoung's sitting in the chair by Jongin's bed. Someone's just made her laugh. " _There_ you are," she exhales, hands in the air. "These two are starting to feed off each other's weirdness."  
  
"What's going on?" Chanyeol leans against the wall behind her.  
  
"Name poems." Sunyoung tells him, smirking over her shoulder. "Jongin is an expert at them."  
  
"And at multi-tasking, too, I see." Chanyeol tilts his head to the side. His eyes rest on the paperback in Jongin's lap. A laugh track blares from the television speakers. "What're you reading?"  
  
He sees the curl in the corner of Jongin's mouth before the younger can conceal it. "Might be one of yours. Or not."  
  
"So mysterious, maknae."  
  
Chanyeol takes off his sunglasses to hang them in the neck of his sweater. But Jongin holds out a hand, so Chanyeol passes the eyewear to him instead.  
  
"What's your guess?" Jongin slides on the wayfarers, pressing them into the bridge of his nose. From the neck up, he looks like one of those rich kids on a yacht in the tropics.  
  
"I don't know," Chanyeol plays along. "I'm not sure what baby cousins like to read nowadays."  
  
"Sorry to interrupt this  _fascinating_ discussion," Jongdae cuts in, "but I'm starving." He caps the Sharpie and tosses it to Chanyeol. "It's  _Pool_ and he loves it. Now sign this cast so we can eat--Jongin's been waiting for you to do it."  
  
Jongdae hops off the mattress, cheerful half-moons for eyes.  
  
Chanyeol pushes off the wall to take his place. He glances in Jongin's direction, bent on teasing him. The dancer's eyes are downcast, and his cheeks are flushed.  
  
It's really...endearing. Almost as endearing as the guilty puppy photos Chanyeol's got saved into a separate folder on his desktop. And cute. Very cute. (That word again, wafting through Chanyeol's mind like a gentle reminder.)  
  
He diverts his attention to Jongdae. "Another satisfied customer?" he jokes. "I should really start paying you some sort of commission."  
  
"Uh,  _yeah_ ," Jongdae replies. "I'm like a hype man and personal shopper in one." His eyes twinkle and narrow, and Chanyeol knows he's going in for the kill. "You haven't put that thing down since I handed it to you last night, have you, Jonginnie?"  
  
Jongin blushes even harder, but he manages an unrepentant look this time. "I didn't have a choice," he ripostes. "You were whispering really saucy things to Sunyoung-sshi over the phone. I had to keep myself occupied."  
  
Chanyeol widens his mouth, tipping his head back in a silent guffaw.  
  
Sunyoung slaps Jongdae's shoulder. "Oh my god." She hits him again when he tries to protest. "You said you were out in the corridor!"  
  
"I was in the bathroom!" he explains, laughing and groaning at once. "How would I know Jongin has bionic ears?"  
  
"The door was open," Jongin murmurs matter-of-factly.  
  
"Also, hospital bathrooms aren't soundproof," Chanyeol adds, even though he probably shouldn't. Sunyoung rarely loses her cool like this, and he kind of enjoys witnessing it. "You know, in case of emergencies."  
  
That gets both him and Jongdae whumped on the head. Jongin chortles like an overgrown baby, but he sticks his book under a pillow, anyway, to protect it.  
  
Jongdae's brought a box of Mr. Pizza this time. Twelve thin-crust slices of quattro formaggi, with hot sauce in packets on the side.  
  
Jongin wolfs down two wedges in under five minutes. Chanyeol's still holding the Sharpie from earlier, his share of the pizza cooling slowly in the airconditioning.  
  
"What should I write?" he says to the room, addressing no one in particular.  
  
"Something fun," Jongin replies. He's got tomato sauce along the hinges of his mouth. His tongue pokes out to clean it up.  
  
"Just give him your autograph," Jongdae croons. "Or your contact details, so I can stop playing the go-between."  
  
Jongin doesn't give him the satisfaction of a violent reaction. He only looks steadily Chanyeol's way, lips inert, eyes assessing.  
  
Chanyeol grins, going for amiable. "You'll text me what you think of the book, won't you, Jongin?"  
  
Jongin reaches for his third slice. "Sure, hyung."  
  
Chanyeol has terrible penmanship. He hopes Jongin can still make out the scrawl he leaves over the dancer's ankle, the blank patch of plaster now marked up in green.  
  
_This is Chanyeol-hyung,_  he writes, including his mobile number and a teensy sketch of a pair of sunglasses.  _Don't forget~_  
  
  
  
  
After spending ten days in confinement at the hospital, Jongin is discharged.  
  
Chanyeol finds out via SMS, through both Kim cousins.  
  
_Yeol-ah,_  Jongdae types.  _I need another favor!_  
  
Chanyeol sends him a sticker of a teddy bear with two question marks pinging over his head.  
  
_I'll be working really late for the next couple nights,_ Jongdae informs him.  _Four, maybe five. We're pulling a seven-day workweek to meet a deadline._  
  
Chanyeol selects a sticker of the teddy bear at his cubicle, angrily sweeping paper off his desk.  
  
_Yeah yeah yeah. So would you look in on Jongin for me? Make sure he eats something? Doesn't fall over???_ Jongdae's breaking out the triples now, which means this is a demand, not a request.  
  
Chanyeol sighs, scratching the back of his neck. His apartment is in Hongdae, and Jongdae's is in Apgujeong, and Chanyeol's got way too much white space on his computer screen staring back at him with icy judgment to make the trip twice a day.  
  
_I need to write,_ he types back.  _Send him here for the week. Easier that way._  
  
_Big softie._ Jongdae sticker-spams him a sequence of hearts, balloons, and confetti.  _My hero *_*_  
  
Chanyeol busts out the sticker of Sandara Park wielding a light saber (his favorite).  
  
Close to dinnertime, when Chanyeol has given up on his (lack of a) draft to drown his sorrows in a cold Cass, Jongin messages him.  
  
_I finished Pool_  
  
Chanyeol puts down his glass. The ice cubes in it crackle when they touch.  
  
_Hey maknae^^_  
  
Jongin types the way a kindergartner speaks--without patience, and with unintentional humor. Chanyeol watches, amused, as each phrase pops up on his phone screen with a choppy cadence.  
  
_Hi  
  
I liked it  
  
Really liked it  
  
But  
  
It was depressing at the end  
  
Depressing as hell_  
  
_You writers have issues_  
  
Chanyeol's laugh is off-key, his unutilized voice lodging in his throat.  _Of course. We're writers~_  
  
Jongin likes teddy bear stickers, too. He sends the one of Brown hunkering down in a corner, flanked by shadows, all gloom and doom.  
  
_Let's talk about them  
  
When I sleep over  
  
Hyung_  
  
  
  
  
"Do you want anything specific for dinner?"  
  
The kitchen counter digs into Chanyeol's tailbone. He's shuffling through takeout menus--chicken place, pizza place, Chinese place. He leans against the gray tile, the edge pressing cool against his skin through the fabric of his shirt. This counter has always been too low for comfort (or maybe Chanyeol's always been too tall).  
  
"I want ramyun," Jongin replies, an arm's length away, "but I shouldn't." He's propped up against the island in Chanyeol's kitchen, looking comfortable despite the crutch under one arm.  
  
"Sure you can," Chanyeol says. He reaches behind himself and a little lower to pry open the cupboard with his Shin Cup stash. "I've got plenty."  
  
"It's not that." Jongin rolls his neck, so it cricks. "I'm in recovery now, so it's back to the usual grind."  
  
Chanyeol cocks an eyebrow in his direction. "You're on a diet?"  
  
Jongin exhales his amusement through his nostrils. It sends a few wisps of his unstyled hair fluttering. "I'm a dancer. It's not a diet--it's maintenance." He rakes his bangs off his face and rubs his left eye, smile fuzzy.  
  
Every time they've met, this manboy looks halfway between needing a nap and just waking up from one. At least, that's what Chanyeol thinks.  
  
"Okay..." He puts the handful of menus back on the counter. "I can, um, make you a salad?"  
  
Jongin's laugh matches his Line messages--choppy, and a little cartoonish. There's an undercurrent of scorn in it, too, but not the bad kind. It's more along the lines of:  _You're feeding me a salad on my first night out of the hospital?_  
  
"Nah," Jongin answers, markedly more familiar. Another laugh is tiptoeing out of the corner of his mouth, but he tucks it back with practiced self-restraint. "Can we eat meat?"  
  
" _That_  I can do," Chanyeol declares, and he pries open the door to the fridge.  
  
On a hot plate, he grills sukiyaki cuts of beef, and chunkier, fattier cubes of pork, and the rich and earthy portobello mushrooms he finds in his chiller. Jongin stands next to him, watching the food brown and helpfully handing Chanyeol black pepper and sesame oil when he reaches for it.  
  
"Go sit down," Chanyeol tells him, gently bumping their shoulders together. "You're in recovery."  
  
"I'm fine," Jongin says in return.  
  
There's finality in the words, so Chanyeol doesn't nag. He does let Jongin taste the most well-done bits of meat clamped between the barbecue tongs whenever the newcomer licks his lips.  
  
Later, when they're in the middle of their sit-down meal, and Chanyeol has taken advantage of a lull in their conversation to grab them fresh beers, Jongin asks.  
  
"Who is Soojung, hyung?"  
  
That catches Chanyeol off-guard. He returns to the table, carefully setting down one can for himself and one for Jongin. "My ex-girlfriend."  
  
"Ah," Jongin says. His gaze is thoughtful and neutral at once, and his beer makes a pleasant pop when he cracks it open.  "Is she 'S'? In  _Float_?"  
  
The books. That's where he got the name. Chanyeol thought maybe Jongdae had looped his cousin in.  
  
"That's right." He takes a long draught of his beer. It's freezing cold, silken as it washes down his throat. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"No reason," is Jongin's simple response. "Just curious."  
  
Chanyeol changes the subject, only because it looks like Jongin is giving up on this one. "What do you dance, maknae?"  
  
The younger man folds in his lips to wet them. "Ballet."  
  
"Fancy," Chanyeol deadpans. Jongin rolls his eyes. It makes the elder bark out a laugh. "What?"  
  
"I've heard it all," Jongin says, unamused but grinning anyway, in spite of himself. "So give me your best shot, hyung."  
  
"Aw," Chanyeol backtracks immediately, leaning forward on his elbows. Uncertainty prickles at his sternum, a degree shy of guilt. "I didn't mean anything by it, Jongin."  
  
Jongin tilts his head, inquisitive. There's that sleepy, seeking look again. "I'm used to strangers finding it funny."  
  
"I write fairytales for a living." Chanyeol has always turned to self-deprecation as a palliative measure. "I'm sure strangers would find that funny, too."  
  
It works. This time, when Jongin smiles at him, it radiates genuine humor, coupled with a strange sort of interest that Chanyeol kind of likes.  
  
"So when did you start dancing?" he asks, thumbing at the lip of his Cass.  
  
"When I was eight." Chanyeol can't put a finger on it--this lazy, hazy gaze Jongin presents him with.  
  
"Wow," Chanyeol says, letting out a low whistle. "When I was eight, all I could think about was  _tteokbokki_."  
  
"Not so fancy," Jongin drawls in the same tone of voice Chanyeol had used to tease him. His eyes are bright and curved and mischievous.  
  
Chanyeol raises both hands, simpering at the table in defeat. Like clockwork, his subconscious intones that word he always associates with Jongdae's baby cousin.  _Cute, cute, cute._  
  
"Just kidding," cute Kim Jongin says, stretching his hands across the table. Palms down. Conciliatory. He giggles--a sweet, carefree sound that Chanyeol's never heard him make before--and he waits for Chanyeol to pose his next question.  
  
So Chanyeol asks.  
  
"What got you into ballet?"  
  
"Uncle was a ballerino. Grew up watching him."  
  
"What's the first ballet you were in?"  
  
"The Nutcracker."  
  
"You played..."  
  
"A gingerbread soldier."  
  
Chanyeol can't help but grin. "And who is your favorite ballet dancer?"  
  
"Mikhail Baryshnikov." The foreign name rolls off Jongin's tongue easily, lean and athletic. "Did you know he defected from Russia?"  
  
Chanyeol doesn't even know who Mikhail Baryshnikov is. "Really?" he murmurs, anyway, because he enjoys the light in Jongin's face when he talks about dance.  
  
The latter nods, mildly exuberant. "He was on tour with the Kirov Ballet, his original company, in Canada. By the end of the tour, he'd decided to stay behind." He picks up his chopsticks to feed himself a small slice of mushroom. "It was a  _huge_ scandal at the time."  
  
Chanyeol hums. It's a cool story, but he's a little more fascinated by the play of Jongin's features. He compares the sharpness of Jongin's jawbone with the rounded upper curve of his cheek; the intelligent slope of his brows and the boyish, almost dopey look he gets in his eyes when he finds the taste in his mouth delicious. It's a bit intrusive of him, Chanyeol will be the first to admit. But he's a writer, after all, with writer's instincts--and a photographic memory on top of that. He absorbs expressions, sounds, smells, shapes, the entirety of a mundane scene, the way other people absorb gossip.  
  
"Tell me something about ballet," he requests. "Something regular people wouldn't know."  
  
"Hmm." Jongin chews on the inside of his left cheek. "That's a weird question."  
  
"You're a weird kid who likes to dance," Chanyeol bounces back, "and I'm a weird writer-hyung who doesn't know anything about it."  
  
Jongin cracks his knuckles, steeples his fingers under his chin. "All right. Do you know what a pirouette is?"  
  
"Kind of?" Chanyeol had watched  _Center Stage_  when he was in middle school. With Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, at the Megabox Cineplex in COEX, before the entire mall was this glitzy tourist magnet. (He can't believe he still remembers.) "The spinning move, right?"  
  
"Right." Jongin taps his fingertips over his knuckles, digits still interwoven. An inverted clap. Then he says, "A pirouette is not a fouette."  
  
Chanyeol nods, polite and patient. He waits for the explanation. When none is offered to him--only a quirk of a smile--he furrows his brow. "Is that it?"  
  
Jongin pops another portobello sliver into his mouth. "That's it."  
  
"What's the difference?"  
  
"I'd show you," Jongin replies, "but I busted my ankle, remember?"  
  
And then it hits Chanyeol. Painkillers. Jongdae told him to give Jongin his painkillers. Chanyeol's eyes dart to his watch. It's an hour over schedule.  
  
"Shit," he mutters. "Jongin, I forgot about your medication."  
  
The dancer shakes his head. "Don't need it."  
  
"No, I'll go get it for you--"  
  
"Don't need it," Jongin insists, leaning back into his chair with stubbornness in his eyes. "I've got a high threshold for pain, hyung. I'm good."  
  
He doesn't look like he's trying to get out of anything needlessly, but Chanyeol still hesitates. "You sure?"  
  
"Yeah." Jongin takes a swig of his beer. The sides of the can are sweating. "No need to baby me while I'm here."  
  
There's a whisper of rebellion skating underneath that last sentence. Chanyeol says nothing of it--only files it away as another dissonant, surprising, strangely appealing facet of Jongin's personality. "If you say so, maknae."  
  
They drink in silence for a brief spell. It isn't comfortable, because they aren't that familiar with each other yet. Chanyeol has a feeling that will change, though.  
  
"I'll show you." Jongin's mid-pitched mumble cuts through the quiet. No segue.  
  
"Show me what?" Chanyeol says, accommodating him with a grin.  
  
"The difference," the dancer replies, "between a pirouette and a fouette." His voice is neither shy nor smug. It's unadorned, like the expression that's fallen, mellow, across his face. "I'll show you when I'm better, hyung."  
  
Just now, while he was speaking, Jongin had resembled Kyungsoo so much-- _so much,_  it was almost like Chanyeol was staring at a photograph of his old school friend. He inhales, lips straightening into a tight line.  
-  
Jongin notices. "What's the matter?"  
  
Swiftly, Chanyeol props up his smile. "Nothing," he beams, blinking away errant memories. "Show me your spins when your break heals. I'm ready to be impressed."  
  
Jongin eyes him prudently, but he allows the shift in conversation (the way he had earlier, when Chanyeol steered them away from talk of Soojung). "Pirouette. Fouette. Not spins."  
  
"Pirouette," Chanyeol repeats after him. "Fouette." He laughs weakly, feeling awkward. His pronunciation is atrocious.  
  
The air in the kitchen still smells like their dinner, and the breath catching in Chanyeol's nostrils already whiffs of beer. If he lowers his eyes, he can just make out Jongin's doodle-laden cast, where it taps absently against the nearest table leg.  
  
Jongin flashes teeth, white and straight. "Not spins," he reminds Chanyeol.  
  
The elder nods obediently. "Not spins."


	2. Chapter 2

Soojung wasn't the last person to sleep over at Chanyeol's. But she  _had_ slept over, one last time, after they'd returned from Taiwan.  
  
She'd already been distant by then; snappish and on edge, like she was holding something taut inside of her. Chanyeol had chalked it up to fatigue; the small mountain of last-minute styling jobs she'd faced post-vacation. In an effort to be understanding, he'd bought her favorite cream cheese black bean rolls from Paris Baguette and tried, for the most part, to keep out of her way.  
  
When she dumped him two weeks later, Jongdae had come right over. He'd brought oily street food and his own pillow. He'd let Chanyeol have all the beer he wanted and talked smack about Soojung like a good friend as they stained Chanyeol's sheets with deep red  _gochujang_ and lukewarm liquor. That was a Friday. On Saturday, Yixing had come over, too, armed with dangerously orange  _tteokbokki_ and a bottle of Glenlivet 18. That's how Chanyeol had spent his first weekend as a suddenly single person--drunk, belly distended, on the floor of his apartment, with the buddies he'd kept close since college.  
  
Jongin sleeps over a total of five nights. At first, Chanyeol finds the experience peculiar--having to relearn the ins and outs of making a new friend, when he's kept the same people around him (give or take a few girlfriends) for the past ten years. Jongdae, Yixing, Sunyoung, Song Qian. Joonmyun-hyung, every so often, when Jongdae manages to get him out of the producer's booth. Minseok-hyung, Chanyeol's long-suffering editor, who takes him out to dinner twice a month. Soojung, before the breakup. Jongin is her age, but he seems so much younger sometimes. That part-placid, part-impish face perpetually turned in Chanyeol's direction. The way he finds something to prod at in everything Chanyeol says, like a kid sifting through a pile of leaves with a twig.  
  
In the end, Chanyeol finds that he doesn't dislike it.  
  
Jongin is the perfect houseguest. Quiet but charming; never initiating conversation when Chanyeol is parked in front of his laptop, struggling with his story, but quick to respond when the older man sidles up to him on a break.  
  
On Jongin's second day in the flat, Chanyeol still feels obligated to keep him entertained. He hovers around his patient, asking if he needs water or snacks, and telling him he can turn on the TV anytime. Chanyeol can write, anyway, regardless of the background noise.  
  
"Have you written today?" Jongin asks, sticking his finger in his book to mark the page. It isn't one of Chanyeol's.  
  
"Yeah..." Chanyeol's written five hundred words in the span of two hours, and deleted all five hundred after re-reading them in the span of two minutes. "A little."  
  
Jongin curls his mouth into a tiny grin. "You should keep going, hyung."  
  
Chanyeol feels caught out, suddenly, by this slip of a manboy reclining in his couch. Chanyeol doesn't mind though. He just blows out his lips so they make a rubbery sound, and Jongin's grin splits open.  
  
"Okay, maknae."  
  
"You really like calling me that." Jongin stretches his arms over his head, the book still clamped in his right hand. "You know I'm a few months older than Sunyoung-sshi, don't you?"  
  
_Soojung, too,_  Chanyeol thinks but doesn't say. He notes the elongation in Jongin's limbs--a feline silhouette--and absently nudges his toe against Jongin's cast. "Does it bother you?"  
  
"The ankle or the 'maknae'?" Jongin's eyes twinkle with mocking.  
  
Mercilessly, Chanyeol ruffles his bangs. "Either one."  
  
He really likes the way Jongin lets him do whatever he wants, without pulling back. Jongdae usually bats him away when Chanyeol gets too handsy, or he plops Sunyoung down between them as a makeshift buffer. But Jongin only sits still, blinking hard when some of the strands get caught in his lashes and letting out an approving  _oh!_  when Chanyeol hits an itchy spot.  
  
"I haven't decided," he answers, his bangs a tufty, haphazard mess. It's like Chanyeol's staring straight at a Yorkie puppy. "Well, the ankle for sure."  
  
"I put your painkillers on the bathroom counter," Chanyeol ventures, even though he already knows Jongin is going to decline.  
  
"It doesn't hurt." Jongin yawns. "It just itches."  
  
"Can you take something for that?"  
  
The manboy's got his book open again. He makes these upside-down smiley crescent eye shapes, without moving his mouth. "Go work on your story, hyung."  
  
So Chanyeol does, and he keeps on doing it for the next five hours. It's slow-going work, Chanyeol rereading and rewriting as he goes. By the end of the afternoon, he only makes it to two thousand words--but on top of that, he stumbles on this flimsy, out-of-focus, nonetheless precious idea of where he wants to go with the next book.  
  
He tells Jongin so at dinner, brimming with relief. The younger man doesn't press for details about the plot. He simply absorbs Chanyeol's excitement, expression warm, munching on his tempura (what else?). And as he's speaking, Chanyeol realizes how much he misses having someone there for him on the other end of a writing session, just to listen.  
  
On Jongin's third day, inspiration imprints itself into Chanyeol like a white-hot brand. He whips open his laptop as soon as he gets up, typing furiously, desperate to get a scene down before the desire to whisks away with the breeze. For the first time in a long, long time, he feels like he knows exactly what he's doing, and why.  
  
Jongin gets up two hours later. He hobbles into the living room and directs a bleary  _hi_ Chanyeol's way.  
  
"Just a sec, Jonginnie," Chanyeol murmurs, frowning at his screen. The very last sentence he's written--a description of the light in a dance studio--isn't very good. It needs massaging. "I'll make you breakfast right after this."  
  
Jongin lets out a discreet (almost pleased?) little hum, but expresses nothing else.  
  
There. Chanyeol's fixed it. Sentence, solved. He pushes back from his work desk and stretches up to his full height. "Okay, breakfast. What do you want?"  
  
"Eggs, please." Jongin's voice still crackles with slumber. "And the  _juk_ from yesterday."  
  
"You liked that?" Chanyeol smiles at him, and Jongin smiles right back, nodding. "Good. I still have the leftover porridge in the fridge."  
  
"I'll heat it up," Jongin says. He starts hobbling over to the kitchen, his loose sleep shirt and flannel pajamas making him look skinnier than he actually is, and Chanyeol finally notices that he isn't resting on anything.  
  
"Hey." Chanyeol juts out his chin. "Where are your crutches?"  
  
"Left them by the bed."  
  
"I'll get them for you."  
  
"No need." Jongin waves him off. "I don't want to become dependent on them."  
  
"Jonginnie," Chanyeol sighs, growing impatient now, "you've got weeks of recovery to go. Take it easy."  
  
Without warning, Jongin grins at him, his entire face plumping up like risen dough. "I like that better than maknae," he says. "Let's stick with it."  
  
Chanyeol purses his lips. "What?"  
  
"That nickname." Jongin has already turned his back, and is shuffling, disobediently, into the kitchen. "I like it, hyung."  
  
Breakfast is the only meal they share that day, sitting across from each other in the yellow sunlight. Immediately after, Chanyeol makes a pot of coffee and plops down in front of his laptop, fueled by cup after cup until late in the evening. (He does make sure to ask Jongin if he wants to eat, twice, to which the younger man replies, "I'll manage on my own.")  
  
Jongin's fourth day in the apartment passes in pretty much the same way. Chanyeol has breakfast with him but skips lunch entirely, while Jongin munches on a sandwich Chanyeol had put together for him before.  
  
Conversely, it is Jongin who brings him dinner--a carton of pork and shrimp dumplings and another of eggy fried rice. Chanyeol shuts off his computer in an instant, springing to his feet and accepting the food sheepishly.  
  
"Don't worry, old man." Jongin winks. "All I did was order takeout. Nothing life-threatening." He's using his crutches again, just like Chanyeol told him to.  
  
Chanyeol tugs on his earlobe. "You're fresh, Jonginnie, but very cute."  
  
"Actually, I'm a badass," Jongin tells him, purposely arch. Chanyeol's chortle is horse-like. "But cute's okay, too, I guess."  
  
On Jongin's last night, the inspiration thrums a little less, providing a brief respite. Chanyeol's got his outline mapped out, anyway, so he doesn't think it'll hurt to take a break. He asks Jongin if he'd like to go see the new  _Avengers_ movie and is promptly turned down.  
  
"You know what I wanna do?" Jongin says, sleepy smile turned up to a hundred watts.  
  
Chanyeol cushions his cheek in his hand. "Does this involve a hot new club or your musician friend's awesome gig or a rager at someone's house?"  
  
Jongin's eyes roll so very far back. It's priceless. "I'm twenty-five. Geez. Have some faith."  
  
Chanyeol smirks. "I keep forgetting you aren't an  _actual_ baby cousin." He nods to get Jongin speaking again. "What do you wanna do?"  
  
"Drink." Jongin wiggles his eyebrows. "By the Banpo Bridge. To see the Rainbow Fountain."  
  
"I take it back." Chanyeol moves his palm so it covers his forehead. "You  _are_ an actual baby cousin."  
  
"Don't be a killjoy." Jongin pouts. "Is Banpo not cool enough for you?"  
  
"I'm surprised it's cool enough for  _you_ ," Chanyeol laughs. "Do you seriously want to go? It's a tourist trap, Jongin."  
  
"I've never been," the younger man tells him. Doubt has crept into his tone, spidery and sly. "I trained in dance every day after school when I was a kid. Did nothing  _but_ dance while I was at Juilliard."  
  
" _Juilliard,_ " Chanyeol repeats, lips rounded, like his eyes. "Jongdae didn't tell me  _that._ "  
  
"Um, yeah." Jongin glosses over this new information quickly, like he doesn't want to seem full of himself. "When I came home two years ago, I started right away at the KNB."  _Korea National Ballet._  Chanyeol fleshes out the acronym for himself. "And I still haven't seen that fountain. Isn't that sad? Middle-schoolers have been taking their crushes there since the eighties, hyung."  
  
Chanyeol makes it easy for him--beginning, like he always does, with humor. "The fountains in New York didn't do it for you, Baryshnikov?"  
  
"Nah," Jongin replies. His brows lift at Chanyeol's pronunciation, still atrocious. "Not enough rainbow. Barely enough soju."  
  
That settles it. They take a cab downtown to Seocho, where the bridge crosses the Han. Chanyeol doesn't want Jongin to have to contend with the Saturday night subway crowd--but the people on bicycles give them a run for their money.  
  
The Banpo Bridge Rainbow Fountain is best viewed by the riverside, in the moonlight. Chanyeol was right, of course--the wide swathe of the outdoor viewing deck is crawling with people. Tourists, families, couples with their dogs, clumps of college kids. He and Jongin are lucky to find a spot close to the edge of the water, where Chanyeol unpacks their picnic dinner.  
  
"Kimbap, kimbap, kimchi," Jongin recites, eyeing the reusable containers Chanyeol sets out over an old table mat. "Yum."  
  
Chanyeol also unpacks four bottles of Eau, two bottles of soju, and a tumbler of hot water, along with utensils and paper napkins. His older sister Yura, who works as a wedding planner, has always taught him to come prepared.  
  
"What's the hot water for?" Jongin asks, already prying the lid off one of the kimbap dishes.  
  
"Your cheat day," Chanyeol informs him. Then he pulls out two single-serving bowls of ramyun.  
  
Jongin laughs, out loud, grabbing one for himself. "Is this my going-away present, hyung?"  
  
"You bet," Chanyeol replies. "Enjoy."  
  
They wolf down their comfort food, heartily smacking their lips when they tingle with spice. Chanyeol neglected to bring cups (so much for Yura), so they pour their soju into the jumbo Eau bottle caps and call it recycling. Chanyeol knew he'd always liked this brand for a reason.  
  
He has to admit, the rainbow fountain isn't as lame as he'd thought. They've arrived just in time for the eight-thirty demonstration. Suddenly, music is blaring from unseen mega speakers, and a titanic spray of water is gushing out the side of the Banpo Bridge. It's lit in multicolor, and the neon shades change dramatically, non-stop, to complement the pop song pulsing through the air. It's a twenty-minute show--one that will repeat itself promptly at nine, Chanyeol finds out.  
  
For now, he watches the fountain, quite content, as Jongin calls out his appreciation. They're blasting Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You," and Chanyeol has pulled out his phone so he can catch the whole thing on video. The water fans out, flutters up and down, unrelenting; sometimes floating like the hem of a skirt, other times streaming like a powerful gust of wind.  
  
Five songs are played, including "Moonlight Sonata." ("Beethoven," Jongin says, going glassy in the eyes. "I used to dance to this at school in New York.") When the water finally recedes, and the spotlights dim, the people applaud like they've just watched a live performance.  
  
"Let's stay for the next one, too?" Jongin's smiling, radiant in the face. It's a warm spring night. His forehead is a little shiny, his lips slick with the sesame oil in the ramyun broth.  
  
Details, details. Chanyeol soaks them all in, like the surface of the Han soaks up the dregs of the fountain water.  
  
"Course," he replies. "That was fun."  
  
"Told you." Jongin puts the last piece of kimbap in his mouth. A grain of rice plasters itself to his cheek. He doesn't notice--only munches away, the sticky white speck clinging on for dear life.  
  
Chanyeol picks it off and flicks it away. His eyes rest on the jut of Jongin's cheekbone; the fading technicolors dancing over it like pixie lights.  
  
_His skin color is pretty,_ Chanyeol muses to himself.  _Not fair. Not deep. Kind of...glowy._ He thinks for a minute.  _Rose gold. That's what I'd call it._  
  
"Hyung?"  
  
Chanyeol widens his eyes. The rest of his companion's face comes back into focus.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
Jongin is peering at him, his gaze interested and guarded at once. "Why are you looking at me like that?"  
  
"I like looking at you," Chanyeol replies without thinking. When his words ricochet back to him the next instant, he frowns, irises sliding left and right. "That came out weird."  
  
"I'll take it," Jongin says, and his face is plain, yet completely unreadable again. "Another going-away present."  
  
Chanyeol huffs at the sentiment. He leans his head to one side, enjoying the stretch. "Okay, Jonginnie."  
  
Ten more minutes 'til the fountain comes back to life. Jongin pours soju into the oversized bottle caps--one for him, one for Chanyeol--and they toast to the past week.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol's premise for his next book is simple. Too simple. He's hesitant to tell Minseok about it. He hasn't fattened up the plot quite yet, nor decided on the big twist that has fast become his signature. He fears the story will be plucked off the vine by his discerning editor long before it has a chance to ripen. At their favorite Italian place, Minseok is all warmth and understanding, but in his office at Munhakdongne Publishing Group, the guy is a businessman first.  
  
"Too much talk, Yeol," Minseok had said as they combed over a rough print of  _Pool_. "Not enough illusion." The final draft would be a third shorter. "If you want to write magical realism, you can't explain everything away. That's just a script for a documentary."  
  
Chanyeol values Minseok's opinion above anyone else's. Sometimes, even his own. But his idea for this story is more delicate than the previous ones--a little rare, like an undiscovered magic trick. He doesn't want to reveal his secret just yet.  
  
And so, unlike the first two times, he keeps it to himself.  
  
  
  
  
After Jongdae picks him up, it only takes Chanyeol a week to see Kim Jongin again. It's at lunch in his cousin's apartment, where Jongdae has decided to billet him.  
  
" _Imprison_ is more like it," Jongin comments dryly when Jongdae is out of earshot. He's left his spot at the table between Chanyeol and the younger man to help Sunyoung with the dishes.  
  
Chanyeol scratches his jawline. He needs a shave, but he keeps putting it off to get more writing time. "Cabin fever already?"  
  
"I mean..." Jongin slackens his mouth, casting about for words. "This is a great place, and I love Jongdae-hyung. He's literally my  _favorite_. But he watches my every move like a hawk, and he guilt-trips me into taking my meds, even when I don't want them."  
  
"He's just looking out for you, kiddo," Chanyeol reasons. "You're literally his favorite, too."  
  
Jongin shrugs, but Chanyeol can tell he is aware of both things. When he glances up from the table, the dancer's expression is nothing but polite. "You call everybody that."  
  
"What?" Chanyeol combs his fingers through his hair. The part in it doesn't feel quite right, like a loose button or an untucked shirttail.  
  
"Kiddo." Jongin veils his eyes behind a sip of water. "Everybody younger than you. That's what you call them."  
  
"I call you all sorts of other things, don't I?" Chanyeol gets his part sorted: a little more to the side, so his bangs flop nicely. "Maknae. Baby cousin. Kim 'Jonginnie' Jongin."  
  
"Still like that last one best."  
  
"Duly noted, kid."  
  
Jongin smiles at him briefly, thumb painting circles into the condensation on his glass. "I'm not a kid, hyung." Then he looks somewhere else.  
  
The parting scene after lunch is familiar and amiable. Jongdae crows on and on about how stuffed he is, drumming his palms over his belly. Sunyoung thanks Chanyeol for bringing the cake. Jongin bows neatly, in spite of the crutches. Chanyeol pats his back and pats his hair and eventually pats him straight into a hug.  
  
"Message me once in a while," he instructs the younger man, easy as pie. "The house will miss you."  
  
"You live in a condo," Jongin says.  
  
Chanyeol's reply is so droll. "Don't talk back to your elders."  
  
And suddenly Minseok is calling him on his phone, and Jongdae is calling for Jongin in the living room of the apartment, and the manboy is smiling and not smiling at the same time and discreetly shutting the door as Chanyeol answers his call.  
  
  
  
  
The next time he finds himself face to face with Jongin, Chanyeol can't tell if he's lost weight or put on muscle. Jongdae's cousin looks a little sharper in the face, like he's dropped the last two percentile of boyhood softness his body was clinging to. But his arms are strong and defined where they stick out from a white T-shirt, and his chest looks broader than Chanyeol remembers.  
  
To be fair, he's seen Jongin in little else than hospital gowns, sleepwear, and baggy sweats, so this might just be a clothes thing.  
  
They're meeting for coffee in the Seoul Arts Center in Seocho.  _Again,_ Chanyeol thinks. Café Matisse had been Jongin's choice; the invitation his.  
  
_You seem to love that area,_ Chanyeol had quipped when Jongin texted him the address.  
  
The dancer had sent back three coffee cup emojis in a neat little row.  _See you Wednesday, hyung._  
  
Wednesday is a humid, drizzly mess that ushers in the start of June. It's been two months since lunch at Jongdae's apartment. Jongin isn't wearing his cast anymore.  
  
"You were supposed to keep in touch," Chanyeol says, licking cappuccino foam off his upper lip. "What've you been up to?"  
  
Jongin doesn't drink cappuccinos. Only black coffee, with ice. "Physical therapy," he replies, with a friendly smile. He chews on the straw that came with his drink, eyes attentive, like he's waiting for Chanyeol to ask the next question.  
  
Same old, same old. "I told you to message me," Chanyeol chides him, no real bite to it. "How's your ankle? When'd you get your cast off?"  
  
Jongin kicks out his old injury, rotating the ankle. "Almost a month ago." He's wearing black canvas plimsolls with matching laces. A slight movement, and his foot is pointed at the toe, calf tensing beneath his jogger pants. "I'm all healed now."  
  
"That's great news." Chanyeol presses his lips to the rim of his cup. His eye crinkles are forming. "When do you start dancing again?"  
  
"I already have," he is told. "It was my first day back today."  
  
Chanyeol quirks his brow. "You're kidding?"  
  
"I've got my dancewear on under these joggers," Jongin asserts, and Chanyeol unsuccessfully stifles his amusement.  
  
"You do  _not_." His tone is coquettish, like one of those vapid high school girls in an American comedy.  
  
"Do  _too_." Jongin winks, echoing his playfulness. He hikes up his pant leg to reveal what Chanyeol assumed were regular black sports socks. Wrong. Jongin's actually wearing footed tights, just like Charlie in  _Center Stage_.  
  
When he voices this observation, Jongin's grin gets all crooked. "His real name is Sascha Radetsky. He dances with the American Ballet Theatre in New York."  
  
"What in the--" Chanyeol snaps the fabric of the tights at the ankle. Jongin grins fondly, more forcefully. "Are you practicing here? In the Seoul Arts Center? Is that why you chose this café?"  
  
The younger man shakes his head. "This is where the company stages its performances. I guess you could say it's our headquarters? But we practice in a separate studio close by." He slurps his iced Americano. "Also, I happen to love Café Matisse."  
  
Chanyeol's next words bubble up out of nowhere. "Can I watch?"  
  
He could weave a mat from the tangle of expressions on Jongin's face. Confusion and surprise. Excitement and misgiving. "Say that again."  
  
"Uh..." For all his spontaneity, Chanyeol certainly feels the weight of unease right now. "I meant, can I watch you practice some time? If that's okay. I don't really know what company protocol is."  
  
Jongin tilts his head all the way to the side. The action is birdlike (and puppy-like, and childlike, too). "Hyung," he murmurs, "have you suddenly developed an interest in ballet over the past two months?"  
  
Chanyeol gnaws on the moist underside of his lip. He's not sure what to say. All he's done since their last meeting is write, screen calls from Minseok (but send him loving emails in recompense), write, see Jongdae and the gang (except when Jongdae warns him of Soojung's attendance--Chanyeol chickens out), write, reread, regroup, rewrite, and then sleep off the literary fatigue to start afresh the next morning.  
  
Unfortunately, this week, Chanyeol has hit a wall. It's a mild case of writer's block--just a temperature, not a full-blown flu--but it's gotten him all antsy again. He's psyching himself out and boxing all the good ideas in, down deep, where he can't access them. When he messaged Jongin a couple days ago, it was just as much to do something completely off-plan (and with someone entirely unpredictable) as it was to check up on a friend who'd been MIA for eight weeks.  _That's_ what has developed over the past two months.  
  
Historically, Chanyeol knows that a change of scenery has always done his writing good.  _Float_ was conceived on a rollercoaster, after all.  _Pool_ was borne out of mystic Jeju-do.  
  
So he replies, "Maybe," the solitary word hanging in the air without closure--until an excuse strikes. "You still have to show me the difference, Jongin."  
  
Thick, dark brows knit. "What difference?"  
  
"Between a pirouette and a fouette," Chanyeol tells him, easier now. "Have you forgotten your promise?"  
  
Comprehension scuttles across Jongin's countenance. "Oh. You remembered that?"  
  
"Was I not supposed to?"  
  
And there it is again, Chanyeol's old companion: the soft, sleepy smile that makes Jongin's cheekbones look less deadly.  
  
"You can come to practice, hyung." the dancer says. He's drained his black coffee on the rocks. Chanyeol wagers he will order another. "I'll text you when and where."  
  
  
  
  
Minseok likes small, dim, elegant places where the bartender knows him by drink. Chanyeol didn't catch the name of this bar, though. Minseok had picked him up in his Lexus, taken the least congested route to Gangnam, and coasted straight through to the basement parking of this building, where they would take the elevator a single floor up.  
  
"Amor Roma's rented out tonight," he tells Chanyeol. An SBS drama is being taped in their usual Italian joint. "But this place serves the freshest oysters in Seoul, so I hope you like it."  
  
"I'm sure I will," Chanyeol replies. "I'm a cheap date." Then he goes on to tease his editor about the slick Tom Ford suit he has on, and how his theater actress girlfriend has ~inspired~ him into ultimate arm candy status ("Saw your abs on Facebook, hyung!"). Minseok sinks his face into his palm (sniggering, self-conscious) and leads Chanyeol by the elbow to their corner table.  
  
The oysters are delicious. Minseok orders two trays and a crisp chardonnay to pair with them. He and Chanyeol swill it in the comfort of their little cove.  
  
"So," Minseok ventures, finally, when Chanyeol is starting to doubt if he has an actual agenda. "Please,  _please_ tell me about this book you're writing."  
  
There it is.  
  
"Aw, hyung." Chanyeol smiles deeply, sweetly, apologetically. He knew it.  
  
"I'm your editor, Yeol." The words are meant to be stern, but Minseok's face is fond. "You've got to give me  _something_."  
  
Minseok was the fourth editor to get his hands on  _Float_  when three others had already passed.  _Too juvenile, too whimsical, too old-fashioned,_  they'd written in the liner notes. But Minseok had phoned Chanyeol personally one fateful afternoon and said, "I think this is going to be amazing."  
  
Chanyeol likes him so much.  
  
"Fine," he replies, resolve fissuring. "Just the overview, though?"  
  
"Just the overview," echoes Minseok, who can read Chanyeol like an old map.  
  
"It's about a dancer," Chanyeol shares. "A rising star, who finds out in a dream the exact day he will have to stop dancing."  
  
Minseok leans his elbows on the table and cranes forward to listen.  
  
"He hurts his leg in a terrible fall," the writer continues, "and it puts him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life."  
  
Sipping his wine, Minseok hums in pity.  
  
"But," and Chanyeol licks his lips into a tiny smile, "the dream also reveals a way to prevent it."  
  
"Oh?" His editor is intrigued.  
  
"If he decides to pull out before the performance--the grandest one of his life--his leg will be fine." Chanyeol pauses to take a draught of his own wine. "He can teach. He can choreograph. He'll never be a legend, but he'll be respected by countless students."  
  
"So he has to make a choice between his art and his body." Minseok clicks his fingernails against the sides of his glass.  
  
"Yes. But there's one more thing." Chanyeol takes a deep breath. This is a little thrilling. "In the dream, after he breaks his leg, there is a woman who takes care of him in the hospital. A nurse." He sees the bend in Minseok's mouth. "She's the person he's supposed to fall in love with."  
  
"So if he decides to retire before the fall, he'll never meet her," Minseok muses, filling in the gaps. "And if he goes through with the performance, he  _will_ meet her, but he'll never dance again."  
  
Chanyeol nods, leaning back into the cushions of his chair. He stretches his legs out in front of him and crosses his ankles, awaiting the verdict.  
  
"I like it," is Minseok's prompt, professional response. "What inspired the idea?"  
  
Soft eyes, soft hair, rose gold skin. Jongin's sleepy face flashes behind his eyes, surprising Chanyeol himself--even though the connection was obvious. "I met an injured ballet dancer recently."  
  
"Oh." It's only one syllable, but the word positively drips with intent. "You  _met_ someone."  
  
Chanyeol's mouth twists into a grin. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says, "but  _he_ is just Jongdae's cousin. I was only helping out with at-home care."  
  
Disappointment registers on Minseok's face as quickly as the mischief vanishes. "Shame." He picks at their shared meal with his fork. "I thought you might have finally moved on from Soojung."  
  
That stings slightly, even though Chanyeol knows it's far from an insult. "I have moved on," he protests, bringing an oyster shell to his lips to deflect a bit of the attention. The oyster is briny and buttery and tangy, with a splash of lemon passed over it. It tastes like the sea.  
  
Minseok smiles and, like always, lets it go. "So a  _male_ ballet dancer." He pours himself another glass of chardonnay, the liquid perfectly pale and fragrant. "I've always wondered, what is the male counterpart of a prima ballerina?"  
  
Chanyeol pushes out his glass by the base, and Minseok replenishes the drink in it, too.  
  
"Let me guess," the editor presses on. "A primo ballerino?"  
  
" _Premier danseur,_ " Chanyeol corrects him. "That's French for principal dancer."  
  
"Your new friend teach you that?" Minseok leans back into his chair, mirroring Chanyeol's posture. He's accomplished the mission he's set out to--at least, for the time being.  
  
"Nope." Chanyeol remembers the only two words he knows in balletnese.  _Pirouette. Fouette. Not spins._  "I looked it up."  
  
  
  
  
Jongin invites him to the KNB practice studio on a Sunday. It's impressive in a spare, elegant way. Ivory paint and lightwood flooring; a gleaming stretch of mirror, no fingerprints. No furniture, either, save for a black baby grand and two straight-backed chairs and a long metal barre mounted next to the wall. Natural light floods in through the windows. Chanyeol can only imagine how great the videography would turn out if the KNB recorded their practices.  
  
There are about twenty dancers warming up in the studio when Chanyeol arrives. A few of the women eye him with mild interest, but he is largely ignored by the rest of the group. Jongin is on the far side of the room, stretching into an arabesque. Chanyeol waves at him, hand by his hip, and the dancer smiles.  
  
"Chanyeol?" someone utters behind him. "Is that you?"  
  
Chanyeol whips around--and there's Joonmyun, brow quizzical, also smiling.  
  
"What the hell." Chanyeol hugs him. "Nice to see you, hyung!"  
  
"So random," Joonmyun says, clapping him on the back. "What brings you to this part of town?"  
  
"A friend," Chanyeol explains, glancing in Jongin's direction. The younger man is touching his toes, face hidden from view. "You?"  
  
"My older sister is the artistic director." Joonmyun stuffs one of his hands into his pockets. "But, yeah, I'm here to see a friend, too."  
  
A thought bubbles in Chanyeol's head. There is an unfamiliar ripple at his sternum, like a chain reaction. "Don't tell me it was Jongin."  
  
"Jongdae's cousin?" Joonmyun screws up his lips, shakes his head. "No, it wasn't." Then his lips stretch out. "But I'm guessing he's the reason you're here."  
  
"Yeah," Chanyeol replies. "We're close." The rippling ebbs. Must have been heartburn.  
  
"You're close to everyone," Joonmyun teases, his other hand burrowing into another pocket. "You hook them in with that Julia Roberts smile of yours and they're on retainer before they even know it."  
  
Chanyeol laughs in his face. "You have the most far-fetched ideas, hyung." He notices, for the first time, how Joonmyun is dressed--navy sports coat, jeans that look new. Chanyeol's used to seeing him in sloppy casuals when Jongdae badgers them both out for drinks after work. "You got a hot date or something?"  
  
Joonmyun's expression shutters for a split second. Then it oozes with the same ease from before. "Or something."  
  
Chanyeol studies him a little more carefully. Sloppy or not, Kim Joonmyun has always embodied grace under pressure. "Hyung~" he wheedles, like they're still a pair of college kids. "Are you hiding something from me?"  
  
Before he can get an answer, a petite woman in palazzo pants sweeps through the door. "Good morning, everyone," she declares, imposing in spite of her stature. "Positions, please."  
  
"Noona," Joonmyun murmurs.  
  
The woman pats him on the cheek. "Hi Joon." Her voice is a brisk and affectionate alto, and she doesn't seem surprised to find him at her workplace. Her eyes come to rest on Chanyeol, who flashes his handsome smile, like clockwork.  
  
"This is a hoobae from college, Park Chanyeol." Joonmyun places a hand on Chanyeol's shoulder. "Yeol, this is my sister, Boa."  
  
Chanyeol folds himself down to a ninety-degree angle. "It's an honor to meet you."  
  
"Likewise." Noona's gaze is keen, assessing. "I love your books, Park-sshi."  
  
"Thank you," Chanyeol replies, resurfacing from his bow. "You don't have to be formal with me, noona."  
  
That gets him an amused little cluck and his own pat on the cheek. "Come sit," Boa says, lowering herself into one of the chairs. Chanyeol insists that Joonmyun take the remaining one. He's fine sitting on the floor with Joonmyun's sister between them.  
  
The dancers have arranged themselves into the proper blocking, already in their starting poses. Jongin is left of center, black leggings blending in with the rest of the  _corps'_. His loose tank of military printed fatigue sticks out like a sore thumb. Everybody else is wearing black or white.  
  
"Your friend gave me both novels on my birthday," Boa tells Chanyeol--no names, but all-knowing. She whispers, "I'm looking forward to the third." And then, in a loud voice directed elsewhere: "I abhor this shirt, Kim Jongin."  
  
"But it's comfortable," Jongin says, honeyed voice filling Chanyeol's ears for the first time today. "And you adore me."  
  
Boa doesn't refute him. She only fans out her fingers _\--talk to the hand--_ pulling chuckles out of Jongin and the rest of the present troupe.  
  
There's a pianist sitting at the baby grand now. Chanyeol only notices when Boa nods, and music starts to play.  
  
What happens in the span of an hour is strange. Almost bizarre--but extraordinary. Chanyeol sees twenty figures dancing in front of him, but he only watches one; camouflage tank like a sail on the open sea. It whirls and twists and slides and unfurls with every move (and there are  _many_ ). Skin flashes along his ribs and chest, and Jongin's muscles heave and recede where his arms and shoulders and long, strong neck meet under the fabric.  
  
Jongin does not dance the way he speaks. There is nothing sleepy, or gentle, or playful about it--not in the least. His dancing is raw. Liquid. Meticulous. Hypnotic. Like a car crash in slow motion--the kind of thing you can't look away from. It seems to take over his entire body, so that Jongin is a vessel pulsing with beauty and power; a controlled current, shaped into movements Chanyeol wishes he knew the names of.  
  
He watches and learns and memorizes for a short, short hour--during which Jongin does not spare him a glance. Not even when Boa cuts a scene short to correct lazy turnout or demonstrate  _ballon_ , an effortless spring-in-the-step. Jongin trains his eyes on his director or the mirror, and Chanyeol itches to write.  
  
The moment practice is over, and Boa has clapped and congratulated her dancers on a productive run-through, Jongin walks straight over.  
  
"Hi," he greets Chanyeol. Sweat shimmers along his biceps, and he has a face towel hooked around his neck. "You survived."  
  
Chanyeol places his hand atop Jongin's head, curling his fingers into damp hair. "Jonginnie, you were amazing."  
  
"Was I?" The manboy is back. Two hushpuppy eyes, one curling mouth. "I don't think you've seen enough ballet, hyung. No principals today--just us plebs in the  _corps_."  
  
A surge of affection coats Chanyeol's ribcage. It's similar to the ripple he'd noted earlier--only more pleasant. "I couldn't look away from you," the writer says. "So I think I've seen plenty."  
  
"But you like looking at me." Jongin's blinking slows, and his mouth curves boyishly. "You're hardly impartial."  
  
_Huh_ , Chanyeol thinks to himself, almost out loud. A tiny, invisible moth flutters giddy wings against his sternum. It feels a little warm there, too, and he can't understand why.  
  
Jongin is smiling at him, comfortable in his sweaty skin and dangerously cute.  
  
If this was anybody else...Chanyeol could swear he was being flirted with. But this is Jongin, Jongdae's baby cousin, whom Chanyeol nursed for a week in his own home like a bird with a broken wing. Handsome manboy Jongin, who moves through Chanyeol's living room with an air of perpetual drowsiness and thrills at the mention of a nickname.  
  
So Chanyeol says, "Leave me alone," and towels Jongin's mop a little harder than necessary.  
  
One of the other dancers is chatting with Joonmyun. The kid stands like a reed; taller than Jongin, almost as tall as Chanyeol. He's a pretty boy, in a haughty sort of way--beetle-browed and broad-shouldered, with a shock of black hair. Joonmyun is almost a head shorter than he is, and the mystery dancer has to keep his neck bowed to speak to him.  
  
The light behind them frames a picture-perfect moment. But what Chanyeol notices is the pink in Joonmyun's cheeks. It deepens when he catches Chanyeol looking.  
  
"Who's that?" he asks Jongin, sending a smile Joonmyun's way.  
  
The towel is draped over Jongin's head like a shroud. "The guy with your friend?"  
  
"Yeah." Chanyeol lowers his voice. "Not so loud."  
  
Jongin eyes him peculiarly. "That's Sehun."  
  
This Sehun has placed his hand on the side of Joonmyun's neck. "Hyung's never mentioned him before." A thumb strokes over a protruding vein, and Chanyeol feels, suddenly, like he's intruding on something private. "How old is he?"  
  
Jongin pulls off the towel. "Same as me."  
  
Joonmyun's face is fully turned in Chanyeol's direction. The space between his brows bears the deep groove of worry, and his lips are parted and twitching, like he wants to say something.  
  
Without warning, the dancer-- _Sehun_ \--pecks him on the mouth. Joonmyun's eyes go wide. He turns to face his kisser, and Sehun grins triumphantly, having gotten his attention.  
  
Chanyeol's inhale freezes in his throat. It makes no sense, and all the sense in the world, at the same time. Joonmyun had been a university heartthrob--the best-looking guy they'd known--but he'd never dated anyone. Not that Chanyeol or Jongdae or Yixing had known about, at least. They'd pestered him about it incessantly, citing the number of co-eds who clustered wherever he was seated. "School first," was Joonmyun's default dean's lister response. "That can wait."  
  
"You didn't know?" Jongin is murmuring.  
  
Chanyeol has to blink himself out of his reverie. But not before one last memory drifts through, unbidden. Kyungsoo--he'd been great at school, too. "What?"  
  
"You didn't know about Sehun?"  
  
"No." Chanyeol lowers his eyes. Everything is uncomfortable. "Is Sehun..."  
  
"What?" Jongin's eyes are cautious. Almost defensive.  
  
"Is Sehun his..." Chanyeol can feel the weight of the next word on his tongue, like a pill. "His..."  
  
"His boyfriend?" Chanyeol hadn't really noticed before, but Jongin always relaxes his posture around him. Now the kid draws himself up, like he's bracing for a blow. He's put space between them, too, leaning back on his heels to take a natural step back. "Would you have a problem with that?"  
  
"Of course not," Chanyeol shoots back. The flare of resentment is instant, as is the clench of guilt. "I was just asking, because I didn't know."  
  
He's not sure what Jongin sees in his face. Maybe it's what Jongin hears in his tone. But the younger man softens considerably around the eyes, the taut line of his mouth melting into his skin.  
  
"Sorry." He reaches for Chanyeol's wrist to wrap his hand around it. "Was I being rude?"  
  
Chanyeol can feel the press of every pad of his fingertips. It's making him melt a little, too. Swiftly, he shakes his head, slapping on a conciliatory expression that puts Jongin's shoulders at ease.  
  
"You should ask your friend." Jongin squeezes his wrist before he lets it go. "I'm sure he'll tell you."  
  
He's right. Only ten minutes later, while Jongin and Sehun are stretching the time it takes to get changed, Joonmyun corners Chanyeol in the corridor.  
  
"So," his sunbae starts, hands hidden in his pockets, again. "Gave you quite a shock, didn't I?"  
  
Chanyeol's ensuing smile is his gentlest, most open one. "That's all right, hyung."  
  
"Really?" Joonmyun folds in his lips. "How many gay friends do you have, Yeol?"  
  
His candor makes Chanyeol feel a little out of his depth, but only because he isn't used to it. "Two, actually."  
  
That surprises his companion. "Who?"  
  
"You don't know them." Chanyeol punches him gingerly. "I have other friends, hyung."  
  
"I know." Joonmyun is amused. Chanyeol thinks it's a much better look than apprehensive. "You were always popular."  
  
"Look who's talking." They're skirting around the actual topic, so Chanyeol decides to make the first move. "Girls  _and_ guys, hyung? You're a pimp."  
  
Joonmyun chuckles hesitantly, pulling a hand out of his jeans to push it through his hair. "Yeah, I'm a real lothario." His throat works when he swallows. "Listen, could we keep this between us for the time being?"  
  
Chanyeol nods emphatically, trying to power it with as much understanding and support as he can muster. "Of course. Anything you need."  
  
"Thanks." Here, Joonmyun sighs. "It's just that...I dunno, it's fresh? We haven't been seeing each other very long--met at a party of my sister's, and everything happened so fast. And he's so  _young_ , Yeol. He doesn't care about the useless things I worry about, and he looks at me like I'm golden." He laughs, eyeballing Chanyeol self-consciously. "This is going to be the cheesiest thing you'll ever hear me say--and don't you repeat it to  _anybody_ \--but he kind of ran away with my heart."  
  
The expression on his face makes Chanyeol's heart ache. "I'm happy for you, hyung. Really."  
  
Joonmyun blows out his lips, unburdened at last. He still exudes reservation, but his eyes are shining. "So random. I can't believe I'm coming out to you at a ballet studio. Talk about a stereotype."  
  
That finally breaks the ice. They've been chipping at it long enough. Their laughter rings through the corridor, surprising a pair of dancers on the far end. It's a little louder than necessary, considering the joke isn't actually that funny--but Chanyeol knows it's the best he can do for an old friend who's just entrusted him with a valuable secret.  
  
Jongin takes him to lunch afterwards. He doesn't ask, and Chanyeol doesn't tell. But before they part ways, Chanyeol's mouth still tangy from the mojito he'd ordered (and deserved), Jongin takes his wrist again.  
  
"Hey, I haven't shown you the difference yet."  
  
The spins. That's right. Chanyeol had all but forgotten. "You can do that next time."  
  
Jongin has the nicest skin he's ever seen on a guy. It really  _glows_ , whether the light is bad or good. "Did you have a nice time today, hyung?"  
  
The dancer's palm is a little moist where it's wrapped around his wrist, but Chanyeol finds the heat of it reassuring. "Fishing for compliments, Jongin?"  
  
The reply is baiting, and completely unapologetic. "Always."  
  
Chanyeol pinches his cheek with his free hand. "As a matter of fact," he says, noting the flutter in Jongin's lashes, "I did."  
  
  
  
  
Every day, starting right after breakfast, Chanyeol is supposed to be writing. He's organized his plot into a timetable, setting a word count and scene tally to be accomplished every day. So far, it's been working.  
  
But nowadays, when he gets up, the first thing Chanyeol does is sift through the bank of messages Jongin has left him while he was asleep.  
  
_Hyung  
  
Watch this  
  
Read this  
  
Check this out  
  
Can you believe this?  
  
This is awesome  
  
This is so you  
  
This is so me  
  
This is so us_  
  
Chanyeol clicks everything Jongin links him. Videos, articles, memes, GIFs. He finds that in the short span of time they've known each other, Jongin's gotten him all figured out. Interests catalogued. Pet peeves sidestepped. Humor down pat.  
  
It's oddly flattering.  
  
It's unsettling, too, because Chanyeol has never been so... _delighted_ by a person. At least, not in what feels like forever.  _Narcissist_ , he chides himself.  _You just love the attention._  And yet every time his phone chirps at him, announcing a new message, Chanyeol's hand reaches out for it on auto-pilot, no matter what he's doing, so he doesn't keep Jongin waiting.  
  
_I'm going to COEX,_ Jongin keys in one day.  _Wanna come?_  
  
Chanyeol rubs his thumb across the words, ruminating over the offer. He's stuck on a scene, in which his protagonist is in deep R.E.M. sleep. He's dreaming about the woman he is destined to fall in love with, and how happy she will make him, if he lets their paths cross. It's difficult to write, because Chanyeol has never had a dream that felt so real he'd never want to wake up from it, like Leonardo DiCaprio's in  _Inception_. The closest comparison he can think of is, well, Soojung. But that was the other way around. Real life mimicking fantasy.  
  
So he replies,  _Yes, please,_  and gets a dancing bunny sticker in return.  
  
Jongin meets him by the new cinemas. He's already got a tub of popcorn under his arm.  
  
Chanyeol grabs a handful of it. Jongin's wearing a T-shirt with a beagle on the front, his fringe puffing awkwardly from the humidity outside. The writer can't decide who's more adorable--the manboy or his pooch.  
  
"We're watching a movie?" He lets the popcorn kernels drop into his mouth from his fist, one by one.  
  
"We're watching a 3D musical," Jongin says, so blasé. When Chanyeol dishes out his best  _ooh-la-la_ impression, the dancer gurgles like a toddler.  
  
Chanyeol doesn't care much for 3D features. The special effects leave him dizzy, and he hates wearing those glasses with the stained-glass frames. This time is no different. The performances are a spectacle, to be sure (Chanyeol is tempted, at one point, to reach out and touch the artists), but his attention wanes halfway through the show.  
  
It might have something to do with the way Jongin leans his head against Chanyeol's shoulder and lines their arms up, so that their pinkies lay atop one another. Jongin doesn't make a big deal out of it--just falls into place, like it's the starting pose of a dance.  
  
It's not like Chanyeol is unused to skinship. He's an extremely touchy person. He snuggles up to Jongdae all the time when they're marathoning DVDs at Chanyeol's house--and Jongdae, for all his false prickliness, pets him like he's no bigger than a chihuahua. He lets Yixing and Joonmyun backhug him right after they're done making fun of him, because they've known him since he was a teenage blunderbuss and are completely unfazed by his fame. He and Minseok try to out-aegyo each other when Minseok wants to stick to a deadline, and Chanyeol's moving for an extension. He's certainly demonstrative with women, having grown up with an older sister who cuddles him relentlessly even after he rocketed to over six feet. Sunyoung and Song Qian treat him like a big baby. He's best friends with their boyfriends, after all, and the ex-boyfriend of their best friend (100 percent safe territory).  
  
So it shouldn't get to Chanyeol--the weight and warmth of this manboy's head, the softness of his hair and how it tickles the underside of Chanyeol's jaw, the tiny circle Jongin's pinky traces into Chanyeol's knuckle every so often, like a tic. But it does.  
  
By the time the musical is over, something unexpected and frighteningly familiar has pooled in the center of Chanyeol's chest. It's not that his heart is racing. It's the dead opposite. His heartbeat has grinded to a halt--a slow burn--because Chanyeol knows this feeling, and it bewilders him. This is exactly how he'd felt, in the very beginning, the day he'd seen Soojung at that photo shoot.  
  
Nervousness.  
  
Exhilaration.  
  
Attraction.  
  
He's experiencing all three acutely, undercut with dread.  
  
Jongin takes off his 3D glasses for him. "Did you fall asleep?"  
  
"No," Chanyeol answers, but it comes out cracked, so he has to clear his throat. "Did you?"  
  
Jongin looks at him half-lidded, his eyes still adjusting to the light. "No. Did you think I did?"  
  
A noncommittal hum is the only thing Chanyeol can manage. He draws in a breath through his nostrils, stretching his arms above his head to put at least a semblance of a barrier between them. There is this urge--this terrifying urge--to push his head into Jongin's shoulder and hunker down there for the next showing.  
  
_Fuck,_ Chanyeol panics inwardly.  _Not this. Not again._  
  
Jongin removes his arm from where it's been touching Chanyeol's for an hour. "Hyung?"  
  
The voice he uses--too tight, and drained of its confidence--is what brings Chanyeol back to his senses. He hates the look on Jongin's face, like the dancer thinks he's done something wrong and wants to fix it, when Chanyeol's the one being an idiot.  
  
His voice comes out more tender than he'd mentally calibrated. "Let's go grab some real food, Jonginnie."  
  
And man oh  _man_ , that's all it takes to get that smile back. It breaks through the storm on Jongin's countenance like a rainbow, clear as day. Chanyeol doesn't know if he should be scared or elated.  
  
"Okay," Jongin says. He's up in a second, graceful as a gazelle. He holds out his hand. "Where do you wanna go?"  
  
_He's just being helpful,_  Chanyeol tells himself,  _because he's a nice, sweet kid, who's just as affectionate as you._  
  
Jongin's still waiting, hair fluffy under the ceiling lights. He tilts half his body to one side, boneless as a rag doll. "Hmm?"  
  
Something in that silly movement puts a chink in Chanyeol's armor.  
  
He takes the hand. He's all pins and needles. "Wherever you like," Chanyeol mutters, and the irresistible Kim Jongin hauls him to his feet.


	3. Chapter 3

Do Kyungsoo and Byun Baekhyun had been Chanyeol's best friends from middle school to high school.  
  
Chanyeol had met Kyungsoo first, in seventh grade, at music club. He'd taken an instant liking to this small, passive boy, all baby eyes and butter voice. The moment he heard Kyungsoo sing, he'd decided for them both--they were going to be buddies.  
  
Every time Chanyeol draped himself over the shorter kid's back ("What're you doing? What're you eating? Who're you texting?"), Kyungsoo had shrugged him off ("Chanyeol. Sit down."). But for the most part, he'd gone along with it. Sometimes, he'd even place his hand on Chanyeol's elbow while they walked home from school. A victorious Chanyeol would grin the whole way, but he'd refrain from making any sudden movements, lest Kyungsoo realize what he was doing.  
  
Baekhyun had transferred in from Gyeonggi-do in the eighth grade. Chanyeol had liked him right away, too. Baekhyun was funny and charming and could out-talk anyone who poked fun of his accent--and the way he sang led every girl in their class to ask for his cellphone number. The best part? Baekhyun had barnacle tendencies, too. He'd clung to Chanyeol and clung to Kyungsoo, sometimes both at once. In no time at all, the three of them were thick as thieves.  
  
Chansoobaek. That's what Baekhyun'd dubbed them.  
  
In eleventh grade, Chanyeol'd dropped all his baby weight and hit his growth spurt with a vengeance. Kyungsoo and Baekhyun'd done the same--except they'd plateaued at five-foot-eight, five-foot-nine, while Chanyeol towered over them both at six-foot-one.  
  
"You're so tall," Kyungsoo had remarked in the library one day, as Chanyeol stretched to his full height to grab a book from the top shelf.  
  
"Thanks," had been Chanyeol's cheeky response. He'd shot love bullets at Kyungsoo with both hands, winking over his shoulder for added insult.  
  
He'd expected Kyungsoo to grimace. Pitch a wad of paper between his brows. Squeeze in a barb or two. Chanyeol'd loved riling him up, because stoic, surly Kyungsoo would always take the bait.  
  
This time, the shorter boy had looked straight into his face, quiet and still, his huge eyes almost fond.  
  
"Don't worry, Soo," Baekhyun had quipped in his seat. He'd stroked a knuckle across Kyungsoo's cheekbone. "You're still the most handsome."  
  
"Shut up, Baek," Kyungsoo had retorted without delay.  
  
And Baekhyun cackled so boisterously, the librarian had rounded a corner to give him a scolding, shaking her stumpy finger at him. Chanyeol had laughed, too, with more reserve. It came hand in hand with the knowledge that no matter what, he'd always like Kyungsoo a tiny bit more than anybody else.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol can't say no to Jongin. And it's not because Jongin is a cute, crafty dongsaeng who knows how to finagle whatever he wants from whomever he wants. Or because Jongin keeps Chanyeol sane with his texts and their trips to Café Matisse when the writer's brain stalls from sheer exhaustion. It's not even because Jongin has developed this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what Chanyeol needs to do or hear or see or taste whenever he's bored or stressed or procrastinating or stumped, the words for the next chapter of his book knotted up in his subconscious like the threads of a dreamcatcher.  
  
All that helps, of course, the way warm tea calms a spoilt stomach. But the real reason, Chanyeol realizes, with lead in his gut, is a different one altogether.  
  
Jongin, the manboy with the floppy hair and fuzzy smile and fluid movements that steal Chanyeol's breath from his lungs, is his new muse.  
  
_It could be anybody,_ Chanyeol assures himself, biting his lip raw.  _He's the ideal subject, and you need him for the book, and he's a really cool kid beyond that, so you like him even more._  The writer taps a nail against his backspace key, deleting the last sentence he's written.  _That's all it means. But it could be anybody.  
  
Like Kyungsoo._  
  
The last thought washes over him like a returning tide. Chanyeol spits out his gum and rubs his eyes and cracks his neck, keeping it at bay.  
  
  
  
  
They go for fried chicken lunches more often than Chanyeol can count. Jongin loves chicken even more than he loves tempura--in any marinade. Soy garlic. Sweet and spicy. Salt and pepper. Cheese. He even likes it plain. When, with gusto, he sinks his teeth into a thigh, the golden-brown crunch of the breading gets all over his mouth.  
  
Instinctively, Chanyeol wipes it away. "I thought you were on a diet?" Soft skin meets his calloused typing fingertips.  
  
"It's not a diet--"  
  
"It's maintenance." Chanyeol draws his hand back, brushing off crumbs and a telling, tingling sensation. "Is this much fried food okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Jongin replies. He hands Chanyeol a wet wipe. "We're training hard nowadays, so I can barely keep any fat on me as it is."  
  
Jongin  _has_ been looking more slender lately. The length of his collarbones presses against his thin shirt. Jongin only wears thin ones, all the time, with his worn-in joggers, so he doesn't have to change whenever he gets to the practice studio.  _Dancer uniform,_ he calls it, patting the pair of pointe shoes he stashes in his rucksack. This "uniform" makes him look longer and leaner, his build chameleonic. Chanyeol has watched him from the windows of chimaek restaurants many times, crossing the street at a busy intersection, easily passing for an athlete or a model or an artist. Always an enigma.  
  
"You should eat more if that's the case." Chanyeol plops a chicken leg onto the dancer's plate. He's been staring again, and he knows Jongin has noticed, because Jongin has that curious expression in his eyes that Chanyeol has spied one too many times. He pretends it isn't there. "Have some of the radishes. They're good."  
  
Later, Jongin will tell him he was right--that the radishes were sweet and refreshing, and that Chanyeol should try the sweet potato fries. He makes no mention of the pregnant pause Chanyeol let swell in the interim.  
  
They aren't always on their own.  
  
"I was thinking of going to Rome in the fall," Jongdae says on one such occasion. His arm is slung over the back of Sunyoung's chair. "What do you think? Roman holiday for us and the girls."  
  
Chanyeol's arm is draped similarly over the back of Jongin's chair. He doesn't know how it got there--or how it looks. "Sounds amazing," he replies, placing his arm on the table.  
  
Jongin slumps down comfortably, dropping his head against the back of his chair. His neck is smooth bamboo, marked only by the knot of his Adam's apple. "Am I invited?"  
  
"Of course," Jongdae and Chanyeol chime in at once. The latter colors at the sound of his own enthusiasm, bleeding bright into his voice.  
  
Jongin's face is turned Jongdae's way. It keeps his expression cloaked, but Chanyeol can hear the traces of a smile in it. "Sounds amazing, then."  
  
"Great!" Sunyoung's got a mischievous look on her face. "So you two can help oppa here plan the whole thing." She pops a cube of radish into her mouth with a wink.  
  
"No way!" Jongdae declares. "I'm doing this solo. If Chanyeol even  _dabbles_ in the itinerary, all we'll be doing is sitting around in cafes, drinking bitter coffee and people-watching."  
  
Chanyeol snorts. "That's what you're supposed to do on holiday. Have an  _actual_ holiday."  
  
Jongin's head lolls in his direction. "Amen."  
  
Chanyeol can see the slice of his grin in peripheral vision. "See," he says to Jongdae, trying not to dwell on the hair's breadth between his arm and the one Jongin has just lain on the table. "The kid knows."  
  
"Ugh," Jongdae grunts at the exact same moment Chanyeol hears the sigh. "I regret introducing you two. You've somehow turned my darling little cousin into an enabler."  
  
Chanyeol's eyes dart Jongin's way. He seems frustrated, somewhat--and it troubles Chanyeol, like a splinter in his finger, because he feels he might have something to do with it.  
  
Jongdae chatters on and on about how he's going to take everybody to the Colosseum and St. Peter's Basilica and the Roman Forum, and how Yixing will help him do it.  _Yixing_ , after all, is  _cultured_. Sunyoung feeds him bits of radish as he gabs away, her fingertips an encouragement at his nape.  
  
Chanyeol nods here and there; even gets in a laugh at the appropriate moment. But it's all white noise to him. What he's  _really_ paying attention to is the side of Jongin's face, the half-expression he can make out from this angle perfectly still, eyes trained on a point nowhere near Chanyeol and mouth stripped completely of its previous mirth.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol hits fifty thousand words.  
  
His protagonist has spent countless nights dreaming of the nurse, his soulmate. He's already in love with her, even though he's never met her. She feels real to him, like the floor of the practice studio beneath his pointe shoes and the tension in his thighs when he leaps into a  _brisé_.  
  
Every waking hour away from her is spent in the studio, training relentlessly. The dancer is a soloist now, a face to watch in the ballet company he belongs to. When the season begins, he will be dancing Puck in  _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ It's the role--the very one that will make him a star. In a way, he's in love with it, too.  
  
So here he is, Chanyeol's ballerino, faced with a dilemma that dooms him to a half-lived life. Will he choose the life of love without dance, or the life of dance without love?  
  
The night he crosses the fifty thousand mark, right at the end of a chapter, Chanyeol climbs into his bed and sleeps for twelve hours straight.  
  
When he reaches for his phone upon waking, there's a message sitting pretty in his inbox. There always is, nowadays. Chanyeol rubs the crust from his eyes and taps the message icon, expecting a laundry list of things Jongin wants him to watch and read and react to.  
  
The name that greets him instead makes Chanyeol bolt up from bed.  
  
Jung Soojung.  
  
_Hi oppa. Can I see you?_  
  
That's all she's sent. No further explanation, no emoji to signal tone. The ball is completely in Chanyeol's court. His thumb hovers over his screen--pulling back, pressing closer, twitching but not touching. Blood is pumping at his temples, where it will blossom, later on, into a headache.  
  
Chanyeol pulls up his Line thread with Jongin.  
  
_Hey,_  he keys in without hesitation.  _Do you want to eat chicken today?_  
  
And in the blink of an eye, Jongin is typing, almost as though he was waiting by his phone. (But that could just be Chanyeol's narcissism acting up.)  
  
_Not feeling chicken today  
  
Maybe sushi  
  
Come over  
  
If you want  
  
^_^_  
  
It's always so easy with Jongin. Exactly what Chanyeol needs the day his dreaded ex decides to reach out after half a year of radio silence. So he tells Jongin to order the sushi, and that he'll be by shortly for his share.  
  
Jongin's apartment is just off Ewha University. Chanyeol finds the building quickly enough. Yura-noona lives in this area, too. He realizes, belatedly, that he's walked by Jongin's place every time he's come to see her.  
  
When Chanyeol relays this information, Jongin's smile is as lazy and amused as ever.  
  
"Are you serious?" the dancer murmurs, stepping back to let Chanyeol into his foyer. "I should look out my window more often. I just might get to see you more."  
  
The flirtation in that hangs in the air like a faint scent. Jongin is still smiling at him, affection glazing over his baby browns. So Chanyeol just...smiles back. Inhales. Feels the moth wings at his sternum. Looks away.  
  
Jongin's flat reminds him of the dance studio in Seocho. Lots of light, pale walls, buffed floors with a little give in them. Chanyeol enjoys the warmth of the wood against the soles of his bare feet. Jongin is barefoot, too, and hasn't offered Chanyeol any house slippers. It suits him somehow.  
  
The sushi's already on the dining table. Jongin won't let Chanyeol pay, not even for his share. "I've got it," the dancer informs him, with a little wrinkle in his brow that tells Chanyeol to let it go.  
  
They eat quickly but in silence--unable, for some reason, to fall into their worn and comfortable groove. Chanyeol reckons it's the same string of awkwardness from the last time they'd seen each other (at Ho Chicken, three days prior, with Jongdae and Sunyoung). Jongin had folded up suddenly like a piece of origami and refused to say why, cheerfulness graying with fatigue.  
  
Today, Chanyeol decides to be a twenty-eight-year-old adult and just  _ask_.  
  
"Jonginnie." It feels like he hasn't said the name in forever. "Is something bothering you?"  
  
Maybe it's a testament to the three-year lead he has on Jongin; emotional maturity, or whatever. Or maybe Jongin is just changeable--like Chanyeol, like all artists--his sentiments shifting as quickly as shadow and light. "What makes you say that?" the dancer asks, his face shimmering with something Chanyeol almost recognizes.  
  
"I don't know." The writer licks his lips. They taste of soy sauce and the avocado in the California rolls. "You seem like you have something to say sometimes. But you never say it."  
  
Jongin uses a voice that belongs to someone more seasoned. "I won't say things you can't handle."  
  
The look on his face is soft, but there's a challenge in the words that takes Chanyeol aback. He feels the tension of it on the back of his neck. "What do you mean?"  
  
When Jongin blinks, slow and measured, Chanyeol can make out every single one of his eyelashes. "Do you want me to tell you?"  
  
And in a second, that familiar burn is back--in the pit of Chanyeol's stomach, the cavity of his chest. He can hear his pulse in his ears as it slows down, down, down, that way it had during the 3D musical. The way it had when Soojung had caught him staring at her, that very first time, and given him half a smile in return.  
  
Chanyeol nods a yes.  
  
"I'm attracted to you," Jongin says, not once breaking eye contact. "But I think you already know that."  
  
The burn travels upwards, scaling Chanyeol's neck, swirling in his cheeks.  
  
"I asked Jongdae-hyung about your ex," the dancer perseveres. Chanyeol sees his softness now as something else--hesitance. "He said she was beautiful."  
  
"She was," Chanyeol croaks out, blood pounding in his temples like an old, dizzying refrain. "She is."  
  
"He said you weren't interested in men." Jongin's smile is a brittle one. "I asked him last time, after you left. He said I would just get hurt."  
  
All Chanyeol can think of right now is the last time he'd seen Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, and how history always seems to repeat itself.  
  
Jongin has hardly touched his food. Chanyeol hadn't noticed earlier, but there's only one piece of sushi missing from his tray, while Chanyeol's only  _has_ one left.  
  
"I told him I knew." Jongin's sigh rings hollow, like a shell pressed against an ear. "I tried to stop myself. See you as an older brother. Lord knows you treat me like a toddler." When Jongin swallows, it makes a pinched sound. "But hyung..."  
  
"What?" Chanyeol murmurs, his heartbeat light and quick.  
  
Jongin leans across the table and presses a kiss against his lips. It doesn't last more than a couple seconds. Jongin's lips are full and smooth. Cool, too, from the ice water he's been drinking. His eyes are shut, while Chanyeol's are open.  
  
Jongin pulls back before he can.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispers, but his face is still an inch away from Chanyeol's, like he's waiting for a sign. To stop. To talk about things. To kiss Chanyeol again, maybe.  
  
It's not the first time this has happened.  
  
Chanyeol slides his phone off the table and clenches his hand around it. Warning bells have replaced the drumbeat of his heart, clanging cruelly in his ears.  
  
"I should go," he mutters. "Eat, Jongin."  
  
Then he's pushing away from the table and into his shoes and out the door of Jongin's well-lit flat. He doesn't see the dancer's face before he goes.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol replies to Soojung's text when he's back in his own apartment, lying in his bed at two in the afternoon.  
  
_Hi. I'm free all week. Let me know the place and time._  
  
He drops his phone into the drawer of his bedside table and attempts, unsuccessfully, to take a nap.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol's very first confession had come a few weeks before high school graduation.  
  
They'd been in the music club after class one day, messing around with the instruments. Well, Chanyeol had been messing around. Kyungsoo had simply settled himself on the piano bench, his schoolbag slung across his body. He'd watched Chanyeol flit from drums to guitar to whatever else, until Chanyeol finally plonked down next to him behind the upright.  
  
Baekhyun had left right at the bell to attend his brother's birthday party. "Goodbye," he'd called out to them in English, because it was their last class of the day. "I love you!"  
  
In the quiet of the empty music club, Chanyeol'd placed his head on Kyungsoo's shoulder, because once in a while, Kyungsoo let him. "It's quiet without Baek, isn't it?" the taller boy had remarked. "I can't believe we spent a whole year together without him."  
  
Never one to waste words, Kyungsoo had offered him a flat hum in response.  
  
"I wonder what he was like before he met us." Chanyeol had snuggled into Kyungsoo's shoulder. His friend always smelled like fresh laundry, regardless of how much sweat he'd produced at gym class that day, or how long they'd spent kicking around a football under the sun during recess. "He must have been lonely."  
  
On paper, Kyungsoo's words would have read with derision. "You think your absence makes people lonely?" They'd still come out fond, though.  
  
By this time, Chanyeol was already used to his friend's surly brand of sweetness. "You felt lonely when I was in Tokyo with my family, didn't you?" He'd nudged Kyungsoo hard with his shoulder, and the smaller boy had had to clutch the back of Chanyeol's jacket to keep from sliding down the bench.  
  
"No, I didn't."  
  
"Yeah, you did. You even hugged me when I got back."  
  
"I don't remember that."  
  
"Of course you do. You just don't want to admit it." Chanyeol had been pushing his luck, but he could never resist annoying Kyungsoo. Not when his friend took every piece of bait straight off the hook. "And you thought I didn't hear you when you mumbled 'Missed you.'" He'd slurred his words, lowering his voice to match Kyungsoo's velvet tone.  
  
Kyungsoo's inhale-exhale had been sharp, like he was trying to expel something from his body. "Shut up."  
  
"Not until you admit you missed me."  
  
"Chanyeol..."  
  
"Admit it~"  
  
"All right." Kyungsoo had practically growled the words. "I missed you, okay? Happy now?"  
  
All eighty of Chanyeol's teeth had flashed in the late afternoon light. "Yup."  
  
Gently, Kyungsoo'd shoved him off, putting space between them on the bench. "Why is this stuff so important to you? Baek was all over you when you got back from Japan. I don't see you teasing him."  
  
"Because you're different," Chanyeol had replied, without skipping a beat. "It's special when it's you."  
  
He'd anticipated Kyungsoo's immediate mockery--a sequence of scoffing and eye-rolling, perhaps a jagged joke at Chanyeol's expense. So it surprised him when he'd met Kyungsoo's eyes and found them round and mellow and somewhat hopeful.  
  
"What?" Chanyeol had said, torn between affection and apprehension. "Why are you looking at me like that?"  
  
Kyungsoo had brought his hand up, carefully, to hold on to the elbow of Chanyeol's jacket. "Why is it special when it's me?"  
  
Chanyeol had been so weirded out, because Kyungsoo had yet to put him down. "Because I like you best?"  
  
Kyungsoo's face had flickered, as though someone had held a lighter up to it in a dark room. Chanyeol watched in complete confusion as his friend's entire countenance thawed, trepidation seeping out like melted ice.  
  
"I like you best, too," Kyungsoo'd confessed. Then he'd craned forward to peck Chanyeol on the lips.  
  
For a second, Chanyeol had experienced the moistness of Kyungsoo's plush mouth as it enveloped his bottom lip. He'd blinked once, and it was over.  
  
Kyungsoo had looked so vulnerable then--shoulders narrow, cheeks aflame, one hand still clutching Chanyeol's elbow patch. He'd stared Chanyeol down, willing him to speak first. He wasn't smiling, but Chanyeol had seen the thrill quivering in Kyungsoo's pretty mouth.  
  
It scared him stiff.  
  
"Soo," Chanyeol had whispered, pain and guilt and terror surging through his veins, "I don't like you like that."  
  
He wasn't sure what tormented him more--the fact that he'd just rejected his beloved friend, or that he wasn't sure he  _wanted_ to.  
  
Kyungsoo had gone white as a sheet. He'd let go of Chanyeol's jacket, flinching, as though the fabric had caught fire.  
  
"I..."  
  
Chanyeol had just wanted to make everything better. "It's okay," he'd said, in his most reassuring tone. "It's okay, Soo." And he'd reached for the other boy with both hands.  
  
But Kyungsoo'd already jumped to his feet. He'd backed away, too, fists clenched into the strap of his schoolbag. "I thought you meant something else," Kyungsoo had muttered, eyes trained on his shoes. "I'm sorry, I, I didn't mean to...didn't mean to take advantage of you."  
  
His stammering made Chanyeol uneasy. "You  _didn't_ ," he'd insisted, voice breaking. The anxiety mingled with another sick, swollen sensation in his chest. "Don't do that to yourself. I'm okay. Everything's okay."  
  
"No, it's not," Kyungsoo'd snapped at him without warning. The sound of it was closer to a sob than a jab. "You'll never understand, because we'll never be the  _same_."  
  
"Soo..."  
  
"I'm sorry," Kyungsoo had whispered. He'd rubbed his mouth with his fingertips, and Chanyeol had noticed the wetness in his eyes. "I just like you so much."  
  
The moment Chanyeol sprang up to hug him, Kyungsoo'd spun on his heel and fled the scene.  
  
They'd stopped talking in the weeks leading up to graduation. Chanyeol's calls and texts had all gone unanswered. They'd still see one another at school, with Baekhyun as a welcome buffer. Chanyeol suspected that either Kyungsoo had told Baekhyun all that had transpired, or Baekhyun had known all along--because in those strange days, he accepted Kyungsoo's silence and Chanyeol's searching, pleading looks without question.  
  
Only a crystal ball could have prepared Chanyeol for what he would discover on commencement day.  
  
Because sometime before the ceremony, he'd walked into the men's bathroom to take a leak and found Baekhyun caging Kyungsoo against the full-length mirror, their lips locked. He'd watched, unnoticed, as Baekhyun trailed his hand down Kyungsoo's arm and fastened their fingers together, tight as a knot. His eyes had soaked in the sight of Baekhyun pulling away, muttering, "Give me a chance," against Kyungsoo's lips, their foreheads kissing. And just before Chanyeol had slipped away, no longer feeling the urge to relieve himself, he'd heard Kyungsoo whisper back, "Make me forget."  
  
That, right there, was the moment Chanyeol realized he'd let go of someone he really, really liked--and not as a friend.  
  
The regret had smashed into him like a ten ton truck.  
  
  
  
  
It's been seven days since Chanyeol has spoken to Jongin.  
  
He'd called the younger man the day after the kiss. A night of fitful slumber had knocked some sense back into him. He'd felt childish; regretted the impulse that had sent him running from Jongin's apartment like a spooked animal.  
  
It took twelve rings for the pre-recorded female operator to come on. Jongin's phone was unattended, she'd informed Chanyeol in her serene, robotic voice. Try again later.  
  
Chanyeol had sent a message then. An SMS, not a Line, to make sure Jongin wouldn't miss it due to spotty WiFi or a glitch in the app or whatever.  
  
_Hey Jonginnie, trying to call you. I'm sorry I left the way I did._  
  
He'd sent  _two_ messages, actually.  
  
_Are you angry with me?_  
  
Chanyeol has yet to receive Jongin's reply. To either one.  
  
To say he feels  _bad_ about it would be the understatement of the century. His week without Jongin has been marked by a palpable emptiness--the hollow, haunting echo of an abandoned place. At the same time, there's been panic.  _Lots_ of panic, at unpredictable moments. It hits Chanyeol like a spasm--a complete shock--as though he'd rounded a corner and found nineteen-year-old Kyungsoo there, pink mouth open for Baekhyun's determined kiss.  
  
Soojung asks to meet at a CoffeeBay in Shinsadong. It is neutral territory. No memories attached.  
  
Chanyeol gets there ten minutes early and orders her a French vanilla, because that's what she used to drink when they would meet in their old coffee place. Back then, he would take sips from her mug and let her do the same to his (cappuccino). Today, he sticks to the house brew. He declines the barista's offer to throw in a cake slice to go with the coffees ("Couple package," the girl explains, gesturing at the chalkboard announcement with a kindly look).  
  
Soojung arrives just as Chanyeol places their tray on a table for two.  
  
"Oppa," she greets him--and there's that tiny flip in Chanyeol's chest again, right before he turns around.  
  
Soojung is smiling at him. It's an odd, penitent expression that kind of makes him ache. She looks gorgeous, for the most part, in her peach-colored dress and low heels. She's pushed her hair into a careless bun. There's a coat of nude lipstick painted over her mouth.  
  
"Hey," Chanyeol replies. He almost calls her  _baby_ , but stops just in time. "Is this table okay with you?"  
  
Soojung slides the strap of her bag off her shoulder. "It's perfect." She takes a seat, and her purse goes on top of her lap.  
  
Chanyeol sits across from her. The seating in this café is a legion of black armchairs, each one designed to lean back into. Perhaps this is a sign, Chanyeol thinks, that he shouldn't place his elbows on the table, clasp his hands around his cup, and make himself seem completely available to the girl who broke his heart.  
  
"What did you want to see me about?" he asks, pressing his back into the cushions of his chair.  
  
"I'm..." Soojung's voice is so guarded. "How've you been, oppa?"  
  
"Fine." Chanyeol takes his coffee off the table. "Busy." He sips. "Is everything okay?"  
  
She deflects. "Sunyoung says you're writing a new book."  
  
"That's right."  
  
"That makes me happy." Soojung's eyes shine, just a touch, and the rest of her face goes all tender. "Will you tell me what it's about?"  
  
Chanyeol resents it--this complete ease she has around him, when he's forcing himself to walk on eggshells for her. "It's about a dancer," is his quiet answer. "Not you."  
  
He regrets it, of course, the moment pain replaces the sparkle in her eyes.  
  
"Sorry," Chanyeol mutters, tightening his grip around his cup. "I'm being a jerk."  
  
"It's okay." Soojung mutters back. They both sound equally miserable. "I was the jerk who broke up with you."  
  
The way she words it seems like a cue. Chanyeol quits staring at the lid of his coffee to steal a glance across the table.  
  
Soojung's struggling not to cry.  
  
The old boyfriend in him rails against the sight. "Baby--"  
  
A plump, crystalline tear leaves a track down her cheek. "What if I told you someone asked me to marry him?"  
  
It's like a punch to the gut. "What?"  
  
Soojung wipes the tear away hastily. "The man I'm seeing asked me to marry him," she shakes out. "But the moment he said it, all I could think about was you."  
  
Chanyeol hadn't even known she was  _dating_ someone. His blood feels too hot, too thick in his veins. The walls of his throat are sticking together. "What the hell, Soojung."  
  
Her lips quake. She rubs them together. Her wet lashes have clumped into tiny triangular shapes. "Will you forgive me?"  
  
Chanyeol doesn't have any fight left in him. Just silence.  
  
She lets out a ragged breath. "I know I hurt you," she whispers. "I know you're still angry with me but..." The base of her throat hollows out. "Can we...can we go back to how it was before?"  
  
He's not exactly sure what she's asking. Doesn't trust himself enough to misunderstand. It must read so on his face, because Soojung inhales again, deeply--and she's still upset, so her breath skips like a stone over water. She reaches across the table, palm flat against its surface. Chanyeol's hands are still curved around his coffee.  
  
"Oppa," Soojung appeals to him, her voice a warm, cozy blanket. "Can we get back together?"  
  
Chanyeol didn't know it was possible for her to look any prettier, even with her mascara staining the skin under her eyes and red blotches on the tops of her cheeks from the crying. Some of her lipstick has rubbed off from the way she's folding in her lips.  
  
"Why?" Chanyeol mumbles. His voice is cracked and dusty, like a just-opened cave. "Some guy just proposed to you."  
  
Soojung's eyes are glassy from the rebuke. "I made a huge mistake."  
  
Chanyeol places his coffee on the table but doesn't let go of it. "It's only been seven months since we broke up," he says. The barb in his tone has dulled. "I didn't even--I wasn't aware that--"  
  
Soojung lifts her palm off the table and presses it against the back of one of his hands. "I knew him before you," she tells Chanyeol tentatively. "We saw each other all throughout university."  
  
Chanyeol's hand tenses, relaxes, tenses again. "Did you break up with him then, too?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know." Soojung is chewing the inside of her cheek. The writer can tell from the purse in her lips, and the depression underneath her cheekbone. Details. "I had so many ambitions then. I didn't think he had enough. We were so young...the love kind of just fizzled out."  
  
Chanyeol wants to smirk. It's an ugly feeling. "Like us."  
  
" _No_." The word is urgent, skating over a breath. "Not like us." Soojung tries to squeeze the back of his hand. Her nails dig into his knuckles. "I...I still love you."  
  
The female barista calls out an order in the background. Steam hisses and burbles. Metal clacks against metal. Her partner, a skinny guy with dark-framed glasses, is making coffee for a customer. Chanyeol could use another right about now--or maybe some of that Glenlivet 18 Yixing had brought over, months ago, when Soojung left him.  
  
"Did you hear what I said?" she whispers. "I still  _love you,_  oppa."  
  
These are words Chanyeol has been waiting to hear for months. Words that in November, December, January, when the breakup was still fresh, would've made him scoop her off the ground in a grateful embrace. Words that could have healed  _everything_ , even the deepest cuts that remained after the pain had gone stale and all that was left of their separation was a scab.  
  
But today, Chanyeol feels...undecided.  
  
The thing that scares him most is that despite the resentment in his heart and the bitter taste in his mouth and the way he won't reciprocate Soojung's touch, her confession has ignited no violence of emotion in him. No  _finally_. No  _thank god_. Not even a  _why now_ , or a  _do you realize what you've put me through._  
  
There is no tiny, painful flip--nothing--and that's how Chanyeol realizes this might not be indecision, after all.  
  
He recognizes the symptoms. He's described them innumerable times--from back when he was a magazine journalist chronicling the heartaches of actors, to now, when he writes fulltime about the magic of love.  
  
_Is this it?_ Chanyeol wonders, astounded.  _Is this how it feels to finally move on?_  
  
(After graduation, when he and Kyungsoo and Baekhyun stopped talking, he'd jumped straight into a new set of college friends. Chanyeol had always been popular. But it still stings, to this day, when he sees a crew of high school kids in their uniforms, joshing around, carefree and happy. Perhaps he'd never really mourned the end of Chansoobaek like he should have.)  
  
Soojung has slackened her grip. The spots where she's pressed her fingernails throb. "Say something."  
  
The cup between Chanyeol's palms gets pushed aside. It's replaced with Soojung's hand, which he holds gently, as if to warm it. Just the way he used to. She looks up immediately, mouth parted, eyes hopeful. But it's only an act of mercy.  
  
"I loved you," Chanyeol says. "I really, really did."  
  
Soojung's eyes cloud. "Loved?"  
  
"You're still important to me." Chanyeol keeps his hands steady. Her skin is so fine, almost translucent. "I don't want to lose you."  
  
"You  _haven't_ ," Soojung vows, quiet yet fraught. "I'm still that girl on the rollercoaster with you. Remember?"  
  
"You were my first muse." One final squeeze, and Chanyeol lets go. "But we can't get back together, Soojung." No endearment this time. It doesn't even cross his mind. "Things are...different now."  
  
The pull in her mouth says anguish. The slope of her brows spells defeat. Chanyeol wants to smooth both emotions away, but he knows better than to send her mixed signals.  
  
"Is there somebody else?" Soojung asks, voice torn at the seams.  
  
Chanyeol stares at her. "No." He drops his gaze to his lap abruptly, fidgeting at the lie. "I don't know." The admission slides out on its own. "Maybe."  
  
Soojung presses the back of her hand against her mouth. Her exhale is short and sweet, but it takes all the hope lingering in her expression with it.  
  
"Yes," she murmurs, "yes, there is."  
  
  
  
  
_No, hyung_  
  
That's what Jongin replies, deep into the night, as Chanyeol burrows sideways into his couch and attempts to process what happened to him today.  
  
Just those two words-- _No, hyung_ \--in response to Chanyeol's second text asking if Jongin was angry. The writer has plunged into his response, thumbs flying over the keypad, when more words file in.  
  
_I'm sorry, too  
  
Come to practice tomorrow  
  
At the studio  
  
I want to show you something  
  
If you have time_  
  
The relief is physical, immediate. A hot shower after a long, terrible day.  
  
_Yes,_ Chanyeol types back.  _Sure._  
  
It's almost three in the morning. It'll look like he was waiting for Jongin's message all day.  
  
Chanyeol hopes that part, at least, is transparent.  
  
_I always have time for you, Jongin._  
  
  
  
  
Jongdae doesn't know how to express himself right now. Chanyeol can tell, as they take the elevator to the top floor of this building, because he can count the number of words Jongdae has uttered since they met at the ground.  
  
Chanyeol hadn't realized that Jongin invited someone else.  
  
The elevator doors slide open with a ding. There's piano music carrying over from the KNB's practice studio, and the blunted sound of pointe shoes striking the wooden floor.  
  
"Jongdae," Chanyeol starts, "is there something you want to say?"  
  
His best friend clears his throat. "I just don't want him hurt, that's all."  
  
"Jongin?"  
  
"Yeah, Jongin." The brass is missing from Jongdae's tone. "I used to think it was hero worship or something. Thought it was kind of cute." The voice he uses is simple and somber, with a whiff of defensiveness. "Just...don't lead him on, man."  
  
Chanyeol knows Jongdae better than to take that statement as an accusation. But it chastens him anyway, and he clams up after a low, "Okay."  
  
Practice has started earlier today. When they enter the studio, the  _corps_ is dancing en masse. It's a sinew of black leotards and leggings, flashes of white T-shirts and twirling tulle. Chanyeol's eyes strain to spot Jongin--and there he is, in the thick of the dance, dressed just like everybody else today.  
  
"Beautiful!" Boa calls out, as Jongin, Sehun, and six others execute a seamless  _entrechat_. They'd looked like they were floating for a second. Boa shoots a proud look towards Chanyeol and Jongdae, waving them over.  
  
They watch the rest of the dance next to her, cross-legged on the floor. Joonmyun's here, too. Chanyeol's guessing he comes as often as he can, for Sehun. Joonmyun beams at them both.  
  
"Hyung told you," Jongdae says into Chanyeol's ear, the words all but drowned out by the music.  
  
Chanyeol doesn't have to ask what. "Yeah. Right here, actually."  
  
Something in Jongdae's feline eyes lies in wait. A test.  
  
Chanyeol shrugs. "No big deal."  
  
That gets him a quick, conciliatory grin, a spike of the brow, and a sporty little thumbs-up--all of which Chanyeol reciprocates. Jongdae's easy, too, just like his cousin.  
  
He wonders if Jongdae would still be easy he ever found out about Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, and why his best friend of almost a decade has never mentioned either name.  
  
After practice, Sehun ambles over to Joonmyun, bowing hello to Chanyeol and greeting Jongdae with a dongsaeng's warmth (they've already been introduced, apparently). Unlike the last time he was here, it is Chanyeol who crosses the room to where Jongin stands, wiping himself down with a towel.  
  
"That was great," is Chanyeol's opening. He searches Jongin's face for signs of animosity, but is unable to decipher the younger man's expression.  
  
"Thanks, hyung," is Jongin's reply. Friendly words, soft eyes, no smile. He nods in the direction of the doorway. "Let's talk out in the hall."  
  
The moment they're alone, and Jongin has closed the door of the studio behind him, Chanyeol clears his throat. "I'm sorry I bolted." He blinks a mile a minute, wired with nerves. "It was a stupid thing to do. You deserved more than that."  
  
"You don't owe me anything," Jongin murmurs. His weight is balanced equally on both feet, and the heels of his hands rest just behind his hips. "I kissed you without your permission. Some guys would have punched me in the face."  
  
Just the idea of it makes Chanyeol's stomach turn. "I would  _never_ \--"  
  
"I know," Jongin cuts in gently. "I know you wouldn't."  
  
Chanyeol sees the sliver of weakness that flashes, blade-like, over Jongin's countenance. "Has that happened to you before?"  
  
Jongin's eyes shift away, casual but evasive. His perfect white teeth scrape over his bottom lip.  
  
"Who?" A flame laps at the center of Chanyeol's forehead. He has to modulate his tone, because the anger has spread into his vocal chords like a tumor. "Who hit you?"  
  
"It was back in school," Jongin says quietly, trying to placate him. "It didn't scar."  
  
"Does Jongdae know?"  
  
"Yes." Jongin's smile is wan. "It was a friend of his, whom he doesn't speak to anymore."  
  
Chanyeol's known Jongdae since they were nineteen going on twenty. He's never heard that story before.  
  
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he mutters. He's grinding his teeth unconsciously. "I wish I'd known you back then."  
  
Jongin's smile stretches ever-so-slightly. "I knew you weren't that kind of person." The tips of his bangs are still soaked with sweat. "I trusted you so much--I still do, hyung. And I just," his throat bobs, "I just fell in love with you. I couldn't help it."  
  
It's grueling, this shift in Chanyeol's emotions. The rage he'd felt on Jongin's behalf has been replaced by an irrepressible, almost  _gravitational_ pull of attraction. The flames travel down to Chanyeol's chest, burning him between the ribs.  
  
Jongin barrels on before Chanyeol can even formulate a response. "I owe you something." He tries to laugh, pulling odd shapes with his mouth. "The difference--"  
  
"Between a pirouette and a fouette." Chanyeol finishes the sentence for him.  
  
"Yeah." Jongin observes him closely, subdued. "Can I show you now?"  
  
Chanyeol's not really sure where this is going. He nods his assent, anyway, if it means Jongin will stay with him a little longer in this empty hallway.  
  
The dancer puts space between them. "This is a pirouette," he says, and he launches into this elegant spin on the tips of his toes, strong and sure, four times. Chanyeol could watch it all day, this mesmerizing vortex of flesh and bone. Then Jongin says, "This is a fouette." And he spins again, but this time his leg extends at an angle and propels him into each turn. One-whip, two-whip, three-whip, four. He closes his eyes for the fouettes, and Chanyeol watches his face instead of the movement.  
  
"There." Jongin's got both feet planted back on the ground. A flush of color has crept into his face. His loose tee is hanging off his shoulder. "Now you know."  
  
"Why was it so important?" Chanyeol's heart hammers punishingly loud and so, so fast. He can feel his blood insisting at each and every pulse point.  
  
Jongin's lips part, defenseless. "In case you didn't want to see me anymore after today," he admits. "I didn't want to leave any loose ends."  
  
It's such a wistful, endearing sentiment, expressed with a downcast look that goes straight to Chanyeol's heart.  
  
"Come on," the writer mumbles, striding forward. He pulls Jongin into his embrace by the nape. "Why would I do something silly like that?"  
  
"I have feelings for you." The words vibrate against Chanyeol's collarbones. "Doesn't that repel you?"  
  
Chanyeol settles for, "You're one of my favorite people." It's safe territory, but not the whole truth. He's not ready to cop to  _that_ just yet, nor equipped to bear its staggering implications. So Chanyeol simply says, "There's nothing repelling about you, Jongin," and hopes it's enough to keep him.  
  
He feels the pressure between Jongin's back muscles ease underneath his hands. "You shouldn't say things like that," the dancer mutters. "I'm trying to get over you."  
  
_Don't_ , Chanyeol's inner voice rebels. His actual voice declares, "Don't shut me out like you did last week." He scrapes his fingernails over Jongin's crown. "I missed you."  
  
With a groan, the dancer pushes him off. "Stop." It's playful. "Not helping." He tries to do it in stealth, but Chanyeol still catches him rubbing the moisture from his eyes with the back of one hand.  
  
It melts him inside, like a cube of ice dropped into a cup of tea. "Are you hungry?" he asks. "Do you want to come eat with me?"  
  
Chanyeol knows exactly what he's doing right now. Going back to where they started. Hospital gowns, tempura in a takeout bag. It's like redoing a chapter in one of his books after Minseok's marked it up with constructive criticism. Frightening. Heartrending. But ultimately worth the effort.  
  
So he smiles and ducks his chin, encouraging Jongin to answer the way they both want him to.  
  
"Yeah." There's a whole new world spinning across Jongin's bright face. "I could eat, hyung."  
  
"Perfect." This world has done Chanyeol right. "So could I."


	4. Chapter 4

It takes another month for Chanyeol to submit his final draft of the new book. He's been keeping Minseok posted via email, and Minseok dispatches his comments through the same thread.  
  
It ends bittersweet, at eighty-five thousand words.  
  
_Spin,_ Chanyeol calls it, typing in the title just before he emails the manuscript to his editor.  
  
Minseok gets back to him within five hours. Chanyeol checks the timestamp in the morning. He's woken up smiling, knowing he's completed a third novel.  
  
_Park Chanyeol,_ Minseok says,  _it's a gem._  
  
He says lots of other things, too--lovely things that Chanyeol reads over and over with a grin on his face. For hours, the writer curls up in his bed to comb through the lengthy commentary his editor's left in the margin notes, and to reread the parts of his book that he enjoyed writing most.  
  
Sometime in the afternoon, when he's had coffee and comfort food for brunch, Chanyeol realizes he's left out something important. He brushes the crumbs of his Paris Baguette frittata from his mouth and shoots off a quick reply to Minseok's email.  
  
_Love you, hyung!!! Thanks for bearing with me :) I'll troop to Munhakdongne next week to discuss covers and all that other stuff you always want to discuss. Pencil me in?  
  
BTW, forgot to include the dedication for this one. Attached the file with the addition after the title page.  
  
Can we have oysters again?  
  
Yeollie_  
  
When he sends the email, something zings through Chanyeol's bloodstream like a drug. It's a cocktail of pent-up emotion--nervous energy, laced with a sense of liberation. Chanyeol finally unleashes the breath he's been holding in since he decided how to end the book, and why.  
  
He hopes he's made the right call.  
  
  
  
  
Jongin's show opens on a Sunday, at the Opera Theater of the Seoul Arts Center. Seven-thirty in the evening, on the dot.  
  
It's an original ballet, choreographed by Boa and scored by a composer friend of hers who makes music for films. Chanyeol loves the score--ethereal and nostalgic, with a touch of melancholy to it, like something by Satie or Debussy. A fragile, impressionist reverie.  
  
On the cover of the playbill is Kim Ji-Young, the KNB's prima ballerina. She's been photographed seemingly in the nude, under an endless froth of white tulle, blown in all directions by an unseen current. The summary identifies her as the Sea Queen, for whom the ballet is named. The Moon desires her hand in marriage, but she rejects him, time and time again, because the sea cannot be bound by anything or anyone. So every evening, the Moon comes to try his luck, and he brings his subjects, the stars, to help him woo her.  
  
Chanyeol already knows that Jongin is one of the stars. He's attended two more practices in the Seocho studio since that last time with Jongdae. But it seems he hasn't been invited to the most important ones. Following the intermission, Jongin re-enters the stage without the rest of the  _corps_ , and Chanyeol is surprised to discover that he's dancing a solo.  
  
He is the North Star, the Moon's right hand. His goal is to persuade the Sea Queen to give his liege a kiss--just one, so she can see for herself how she really feels. Silver-tongued and quick-witted, the North Star soon gets his way. At dawn, as the Moon gives way to his brother the Sun, the Sea Queen lifts her face in a beautiful wave, and the Moon bestows a parting kiss to the crest of it. By the time the curtain falls, a royal wedding is in the works.  
  
Kim Ji-Young makes a magnificent Sea Queen, and her moon prince, Lee Dong Hoon, is a force to be reckoned with. The applause at the end of the performance is deafening. But perhaps Jongin is right, and Chanyeol hasn't seen quite enough ballet--because even with a front-row seat to two of the most valuable dancers in the country, he only has eyes for a pleb in the  _corps_.  
  
He waits with his friends by the dressing rooms. Jongdae and Sunyoung wrestle with the huge bouquet of roses they've brought with them. Yixing and Song Qian clutch the "You're The Best, Kim Jongin" posters Jongdae has thrust into their hands. Joonmyun cuts a fine figure in his blue suit ("Getting hitched?" Chanyeol'd quipped, and the size of Joonmyun's smile had swallowed up his pretty eyes). Now his face radiates like a hundred klieg lights as Sehun rounds the corner, caked in stage makeup and still in his star costume, straight into Joonmyun's outstretched arms.  
  
Jongin's not far behind. But he's talking to someone--one of the soloists, whom Chanyeol recognizes from the performance. The man is tall and built like a machine; really good-looking, too, if the tittering of the female dancers who pass him in the corridor is any indication. He'd danced the part of the Sun--this sleek, strapping ballerino with the charisma of a football player--and Chanyeol realizes with a jolt that he's holding Jongin's hand.  
  
Jongdae starts cheering. " _There_ he is!"  
  
"You're the best, Kim Jongin!" Yixing and Song Qian yell in unison, shaking their posters like rabid fangirls before doubling over.  
  
Even Joonmyun and Sehun join in the fray, hooting Jongin's name and waving their hands in the air. Sunyoung skips forth to thrust the bouquet into Jongin's arms. He lets go of the soloist's hand to receive it, face ruddy from a fresh washing, laughter bubbling sweet in Chanyeol's ears.  
  
There's another bouquet waiting for this manboy. It's a much smaller arrangement of tropical flowers, which Chanyeol pushes behind his back in record time. In his other hand (also behind his back), he holds a book.  
  
"Congrats, Jongin," he says loudly, attempting enthusiasm.  
  
The soloist directs his attention to Chanyeol for the moment, a polite smile playing on his lips. His eyes trail back to their mutual friend.  
  
Jongin is currently caught in the web of his cousin's embrace. "Hyung!" His gaze has a temperature to it. A texture, too. Warm cotton. "You came."  
  
"Of course I did." Chanyeol lets their eyes latch. "The North Star invited me."  
  
Jongin's smile blossoms, swift and simple. The meaning behind it is indecipherable. "I'm happy to see you."  
  
It's been a couple weeks. Chanyeol's been swamped--with publisher meetings and printer consultations, contract signings with Munhakdongne Legal. Some last-minute revisions to the book have kept him up a few nights straight, too. But he and Jongin communicate via mobile on a daily basis, so he doesn't understand how he could have missed so much. An entire  _person_ , really, who has just draped his arm over Jongin's shoulder like he's been doing it since time immemorial.  
  
Jongin must have left him out on purpose.  
  
"You haven't met." Jongin rests his fingers on the soloist's shoulder. "Hyung, this is Choi Siwon. You saw him dance earlier, right? Sunbae, this is my friend, Park Chanyeol."  
  
Choi Siwon has a dimple in each cheek. "It's good to finally meet you, Chanyeol-sshi." He extends a hand, which Chanyeol takes. The man's got a solid grip--the kind that assures protection. "Jonginnie here talks about you all the time. Sometimes I forget that we've never been introduced."  
  
_Jonginnie here..._  
  
The sound of his nickname leaving Choi Siwon's mouth--so casually, too--is a thorn in Chanyeol's eardrum.  
  
"I've heard so much about you," the soloist is saying. His dimples dig their heels in with every word.  
  
Chanyeol schools his face into submission. His default is  _pleasant nodding civility._  It's just the three of them now, clustered together by the wall. Jongdae and Sunyoung have rejoined the couples (Jongin's bouquet in tow). They're all bent over someone's phone, trying to decide what route to take to Garosugil, where they have a dinner reservation waiting.  
  
Siwon ruffles Jongin's hair, which has been slicked back and swooped to the side. A lock of it falls over the younger man's forehead. Siwon lowers his voice to a stage whisper, beckoning Chanyeol closer. "Between you and me, this guy can't stop talking about you."  
  
"Is that so?" Chanyeol murmurs. "Jongin must like you a whole lot to be so talkative."  
  
Siwon chuckles lightly, almost like he agrees but is trying to be modest about it. Next to him, Jongin is oddly fidgety as he pushes his hair back. "I was telling sunbae about your books," he explains. "You know you're my favorite." The same lock tumbles over his forehead, and this time, it's Siwon who smooths it into place. "Author, I mean."  
  
Chanyeol twitches at the sight. There's no denying the squeeze in his chest, the way he's gritting his back molars. He's jealous.  
  
"Thanks, Jonginnie," he murmurs, territorial and hard-pressed to hide it. "You've always been my favorite."  
  
That just slips out. Chanyeol wasn't planning on saying it out loud. Too late--because Jongin looks up fast, wary in the eyes, like he's just heard a shot.  
  
"Hey, come on, you guys," Jongdae whines from a few feet away. "We need to beat traffic!"  
  
Chanyeol allows himself to look back, meaningful and molten, before he drops his gaze and turns away.  
  
"Are you coming with us, Siwon-sshi?" His voice is smooth as silk, meant to conceal the barbed wire closing around his throat.  
  
"Sunbae made other plans," Jongin pipes up, before Siwon can even open his mouth. "Family thing. Right, sunbae?"  
  
"That's right." The soloist loops his arm around Jongin's neck in the gentlest of chokeholds. "You know my schedule better than I do, huh?" Jongin laughs half-heartedly, patting Siwon's forearm to make him stop, but the older man just hugs him tighter.  
  
"He's cute, isn't he?" Siwon directs to Chanyeol, all familiar-like, as though they already share an inside joke.  
  
The writer bristles, but he keeps the muscles in his face relaxed. "Very cute."  
  
They exchange a few more pleasantries, and then Choi Siwon is shaking Chanyeol's hand, saying they'll see each other soon, and Chanyeol is smiling and nodding and turning his back, leaving Jongin to say his own goodbyes.  
  
Selfishly--and yes, he knows how selfish he's being, but there it is--Chanyeol feels let down. He knows he has no right, no claim over Jongin. But that awful part inside of him feels deceived,  _betrayed_ , even, because he wasn't ready for things to spin out of his control just when he realized what he really wanted.  
  
Jongin's caught up to him. They're all walking towards the parking lot, where Yixing and Joonmyun have left their cars.  
  
"Hyung?" Already Jongin is clutching the elbow of Chanyeol's summer jacket. "Wait for me."  
  
Chanyeol hums, slows his pace.  _I wish you'd waited for me._  
  
"You were so incredible," he says discreetly, eyes flitting to Jongin's face but not resting there for long. "I could watch you dance all day."  
  
Jongin's sigh whispers of secret things. "You're always so nice to me."  
  
This time, Chanyeol makes a conscious effort to look over. "I'm only telling you the truth." It's dangling there, on the tip of his tongue. Bait on a hook.  
  
But the dancer has already turned his face. He's staring straight ahead, watching the backs of Sunyoung and his cousin as they walk together. Their arms are linked, and they're glued at the hip. Sunyoung's got her head on Jongdae's shoulder, and Jongdae's got that humongous bouquet under his other arm, like a bundle of bread, where Jongin'd stuffed it earlier.  
  
Jongdae angles in a certain way, and Chanyeol can tell he's planting a kiss on Sunyoung's forehead.  
  
"You've always been my favorite," Jongin says, light and jokey, echoing the writer's words from earlier. He lets go of Chanyeol's coat and shoves his hands into his pockets.  
  
All Jongin knows is that Chanyeol is hung up over his beautiful ex-girlfriend, whom he's written two books for. All Jongin knows is that Chanyeol's only ever  _had_ girlfriends. No boyfriends. Chanyeol, after all, is not interested in men. There's no way Jongin could know the rest of it--that a handsome high school boy had once confessed to Chanyeol, and that Chanyeol, a handsome high school boy himself, had been foolish enough to deny his first love. How  _could_ Jongin know the rest of it--any of it--when Chanyeol is a coward who has kept the most important things from the most important people?  
  
"I brought something for you," Chanyeol mumbles.  
  
There's that sleepy smile. "Is it those flowers you've been holding behind your back but have yet to hand over? I saw them when you walked ahead of me, hyung."  
  
It's always,  _always_ so easy with Jongin. Even when it's hard.  
  
"You should've taken them when you had the chance." Chanyeol holds out the summer blossoms, red and orange and white. Jongin pushes his nose into the center of them, breathing in.  
  
"You'll hold on to them for me, won't you?"  
  
Chanyeol's insides have slowly turned to liquid. "Sure, Jonginnie."  
  
"What's that in your other hand?" Intrigued. That's how Jongin sounds.  
  
It's the book. Chanyeol tightens his grip around it. He's brought the first rough print of his new novel--pages still uncut, no front and back. Just stand-in cardboard covers and the title pages and the eighty-five thousand words after them--and somewhere before the story starts, the dedication.  
  
Jongin's face is so open. Unblemished. "Is that for me, too?"  
  
Chanyeol had wanted to show it to him earlier. Had made up his mind to, actually. Now, he hesitates.  
  
"Not today," the writer says, sliding the book into his jacket pocket. His heart beats erratic against it. "But I'll tell you about it soon."  
  
The expression on the dancer's face hasn't changed. "Promise?"  
  
_If it will make you fall in love with me again,_  is what Chanyeol yearns to say.  
  
But he just repeats the word, "Promise," and doesn't stray too far from Jongin's side for the rest of the night.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol's book tour kicks off just as the KNB's new ballet is wrapping up.  
  
The grand launch of  _Spin_ takes place in Seoul. Following appearances in Incheon, Busan, and Jeju-do, Chanyeol's got signings scheduled in Beijing, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Singapore. Then New York and London. Possibly Berlin.  
  
He'll be travelling for work for over a month, not factoring in side trips to other cities while he's in Europe. His friends make plans to meet in Rome upon the culmination of the tour. They're all in on this Roman holiday Jongdae's been pushing since the cherry blossom season. Chanyeol books his tickets in advance. He hopes the trip to Rome will be a reward for a successful tour, not a consolation prize at the end of a disappointing one.  
  
Because  _The Sea Queen_  has such a good domestic run (three months, thirty-six performances, all sold out), its investors greenlight the show for the Asian circuit. The KNB will be following practically the same itinerary as Chanyeol's. Just different dates.  
  
Chanyeol attends the finale a few days before he leaves for China. Jongin flawlessly executes twenty-four fouettes and eighteen pirouettes. Chanyeol counts, just like he did the three other times he's come to watch.  
  
Choi Siwon has only been a no-show once, when an overseas ballet performance pulls him away from the stage. His understudy is model-tall and newly married (according to Jongin), and Chanyeol breathes easy for that single performance.  
  
The other times, including tonight, Siwon's presence is that of an impending storm. The soloist lays on the flirtation so thick, it could pass for humidity. Every time he rests his hand on the small of Jongin's back or brushes a finger over Jongin's cheek to remove a lash or speck of dust or says something like, "You'll be taking my spot soon, Jonginnie," jealousy looms like a cloud over Chanyeol's head.  
  
As for Jongin...well, Jongin seems to Chanyeol like a skittish colt, waiting for the storm to hit. He gnaws his lips raw, and his foot bounces under the table when Siwon invites them both out to dinner. Chanyeol only goes (twice) because when he thinks of how much time Jongin must spend with this guy alone, it makes his stomach clench.  _Damage control,_  he calls it, even though two measly dinners is a paltry defense against endless hours of shared ballet practice.  
  
Jongin can't stop fiddling with his phone. Chanyeol sees him rub his thumb across the homescreen, back and forth, back and forth, before putting the device back on the table. In ten minutes, he picks it up again, crosses his legs the other way, and repeats the tic.  
  
Maybe it's Chanyeol's narcissism acting up again (it probably is). Maybe he's just reading too much into it (he always does). But every so often, when Siwon is speaking and Chanyeol is pretending to listen but really watching Jongin out of the corner of his eye, he observes a strange pattern.  
  
Incrementally, like a stop-motion frame, Jongin's gaze will pull away from Siwon's dimpled face and stamp itself onto Chanyeol's. His hands stay in his lap, picking at his napkin. When Chanyeol can't stand it anymore and musters up the cheek to make eye contact (soft, searching), Jongin will reach over to pick nonexistent lint off Chanyeol's sleeve. The writer could swear that he does it just to make a connection. But it always breaks the spell. Just like that, Jongin's back to bright-young-thing again, asking his beloved sunbae a question about ballet, stars in his eyes. The connection is lost. Chanyeol finds himself the third wheel once more.  
  
_What has Jongin told you about Siwon-hyung?_  Jongdae had messaged Chanyeol once, sometime after the first performance.  
  
_Nothing,_  had been Chanyeol's answer.  
  
_I like him,_  Jongdae had typed quickly.  _He's sweet-talking me on Line. Says he listens to our show on the radio. Tall, dark, and charming--SO Jongin's type._  
  
Chanyeol had deliberated over whether to send back a sticker, just so he wouldn't have to agree, or simply let the topic die.  
  
Jongdae had beaten him to the punch.  _Funny. Thought Jongin told you everything._  
  
Tonight, Chanyeol can't go to dinner. He's expected at his parents', along with Yura, for his mom's birthday celebration. His dad is making ravioli. Chanyeol is bringing a case of expensive wine for Mom's wine cellar--and, upon her request, a stack of autographed books for the ladies in her yoga class.  
  
He tells Jongin this by the dressing rooms of the Opera Theater, as Chanyeol is taking his leave. Siwon is still speaking to Boa somewhere. Far away, Chanyeol hopes.  
  
"You could still make it to the after-party." Jongin is leaning against a wall, fresh and clean and dressed to kill. "You sure you don't want to come?"  
  
"You know how family dinners go," Chanyeol tells him. Jongin looks lean and languid in his designer suit, and his rose gold skin is glowing from the excitement of the final curtain. "No time limit."  
  
Jongin nods, flipping his hair out of his face. Even that is gorgeous. Chanyeol memorizes the angles of the movement, and the scent Jongin's hair has left in the air, and the way his skin texture seems plush, like ripe fruit, for when he can't have this proximity to it anymore.  
  
"Keep in touch while I'm away," Chanyeol says, because he can't help it.  
  
Jongin shoots him this look--a funny, forlorn little thing that hides more than it expresses. He pushes off the wall to wrap his arms around Chanyeol. "I'll read your new book on the road," he vows into the crook of the writer's neck. "And I'll miss you, hyung."  
  
Chanyeol reciprocates the hug. "I'll miss you, too, Jonginnie." He sounds so earnest, the way Kyungsoo had sounded long ago, when he'd seen Chanyeol for the first time after a summer spent in Japan. Except this isn't a welcome back--it's a goodbye.  
  
Deep in Chanyeol's arms, Jongin pulls in a breath. "I hope so." His voice is plain and soft. In no time at all, he's prying himself out of the embrace he'd initiated, palm lifting off of Chanyeol's forearm. "I'm gonna go find sunbae," Jongin murmurs, and with a sloppy, self-conscious wave, he leaves Chanyeol in the corridor to grieve.  
  
  
  
  
The book is a hit. Not as big as  _Pool_ , whose tragic romance metamorphosed into this runaway train of a bestseller, but much bigger than  _Float_. "And  _Float_ was  _huge_ ," Minseok declares over the phone, pleased as punch.  
  
"Cool, hyung." Chanyeol's sitting in his hotel room in Berlin. He's pleased with the payoff, too, but it's just been a long, long day. "As long as you're happy."  
  
"As long as  _you're_  happy." Minseok's tone shifts into one of mild concern. "Everything okay, Yeol?"  
  
"Couldn't be better," Chanyeol ripostes, putting exuberance in his voice, so that Minseok laughs it off on the other line.  
  
It's not a lie. Chanyeol's met with large groups of fans at bookstores and grand libraries, even universities. He's given talks and readings to audiences who actually listened (at the very least, to the interpreter). He's scrawled his autograph and personal messages in fresh copies of  _Spin_ held out to him by blondes, brunettes, and redheads; by guys in suits and girls in biker jackets; by elegant, aging women, and very young, flamboyant men. He's gone to dinner with other writers and their supermodel girlfriends; a few lesser actors, Korean and foreign. Munhakdongne's put him up in five-star lodgings. Car service, concierge on call, complimentary champagne--the works. The whole tour has been a glamorous romp so far.  
  
His friends link him to articles about him in  _GQ_ and his alma mater,  _Esquire_. There's even something in  _Vogue Girl Korea._ "Every College Girl's New Crush," the one-page profile declares, with Chanyeol's grinning mug underneath the header (he blushes at the thought). Just some publicity things Chanyeol's agent had booked for him before he left Seoul. Chanyeol knows the people who've written the pieces. Their reviews of his book (and of Chanyeol himself) are glowing. Writers always love other writers.  
  
Soojung sends him an email, congratulating him on the success of  _Spin_.  
  
_It's beautiful, oppa.  
Never stop writing._  
  
Chanyeol replies in warm but spare language, leaving it up to her to decide if and when they will meet when he returns to Seoul.  
  
Jongdae messages him constantly.  _See you in Rome, stud muffin,_  is the last entry in their personal thread. Jongdae had sent it a few hours ago, while Chanyeol was asleep.  
  
And then there's Jongin, who doesn't reach out to him at all. Chanyeol has expected this. The dancer's pulled the same disappearing act before--immersing himself in physical therapy without a word, just after that week in Chanyeol's apartment. It seems so long ago.  
  
Chanyeol chats him a few times, anyway, hoping for a reply to his casual  _Hi's_  and  _How's it going's_  and  _Good luck at your show's._  Most of the time, he gets seen-zoned.  
  
Jongin does message him once, when the KNB is performing in Singapore. Chanyeol's Line tone beeps, and he reaches for the phone on his pillow, thinking it's probably Jongdae again, or Minseok. His eyes widen when he discovers it's neither.  
  
Jongin's sent him a photo of the skyline from the top of the Marina Bay Sands. It's nighttime. The firmament is a sooty blue, haloed by the glow of the electric city below. There's an ocean of golden lights, and the red-and-white blur of the traffic on the highways, and the deep, dark glint of the sleeping bay.  
  
_Goodnight, hyung._  
  
It's eight in the morning in Berlin. Chanyeol scrubs at his eyes and races to send a reply before Jongin goes off the grid again.  
  
_Hey that's a great picture! What're you up to? Did you get my other messages?_  
  
He waits and he waits, picking at his breakfast when room service wheels it in, sipping tart orange juice to pass the time.  
  
These messages don't even get marked as "Seen."  
  
Chanyeol keeps checking, anyway.  
  
  
  
  
Rome in November is so different from home. It's still a little warm, and the sky is powder blue, and the grass is rich and green. Only the trees are the same as the ones in Seoul--mustard and auburn and caramel all over, like a bittersweet confection to be had with espresso.  
  
When Chanyeol exits Fiumicino Airport, over-bundled in his Berlin coat, Jongdae and Yixing are waiting for him in matching black Ray-Bans.  
  
Yixing unleashes a huge yawn. Nine o'clock is a little earlier than a nightclub owner is used to. "Hey, champ," he garbles, stretching out his arms and wiggling his fingers. Chanyeol yawns, too, right into the hug.  
  
Jongdae's next. "Finally," he declares, brassy voice a comfort in Chanyeol's ear. "You look like shit."  
  
The writer harrumphs into his bony shoulder.  
  
Jongdae laughs, and they loop arms. Yixing's already tugging them in the direction of the rental car he and Jongdae have driven from the city. He mutters something about caffeine.  
  
"Everybody make it okay?" Chanyeol's hungry and tired, but he's happy to see his friends. The glorious Italian weather helps, too.  
  
Jongdae gives Yixing the thumbs-up to sit in the back. The guy just wants his coffee. "Almost. Sit up front with me, Yeol, I'm driving."  
  
They toss Chanyeol's luggage in the trunk before climbing into the car.  
  
"Who flaked?" Chanyeol asks, taking his sunglasses from the leather case in his backpack so he can wear them.  
  
"No one." Jongdae pulls out of the parking lot. It's a bright, sunny day. "Jongin's flight got delayed. He's arriving at midnight."  
  
Even in exhaustion, when all he can think of is breakfast-shower-bed, Chanyeol's heart manages to swell. "I'm coming with you to fetch him."  
  
"That was the plan," Jongdae shares. The trees are whizzing past them, rich and mellow in their fall robes. "But the kid already booked his own ride. Said he'd see us at the hotel."  
  
Of course he did. Jongin is independent to a fault. Chanyeol should've guessed--but it frustrates him nonetheless. Just another degree of separation between him and the person he's been most looking forward to seeing.  
  
"Alrighty," he susurrates, discontented. He fastens his seat belt and slumps into a comfier position. "Wake me up when we get there."  
  
"Oh, no, you don't." Jongdae elbows him in the side.  
  
Chanyeol yelps. His sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose. "What was that for?"  
  
"I finished your book on the plane." Jongdae arches an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to hound you about it while you were on tour--but that's done now. We need to talk about this."  
  
"Okay, in full disclosure, I haven't read it," is Yixing's groggy contribution from the backseat. "Sorry, Yeollie, I got busy with work. But I brought it with me! And Song Qian says it's great!"  
  
Chanyeol pushes his sunglasses back into place. He swallows hard. "Thanks, hyung. She texted me." He licks his lips. "What do you want to talk about, Dae?"  
  
His best friend is watching the road. Chanyeol can still make out the expression on his face, though. Significant, and a touch reproachful. "Well, for starters, that thing you said in the dedication."  
  
"Spoiler alert?" Yixing says, slurping his coffee.  
  
It takes forty minutes to get from Fiumicino to Rome by car. Chanyeol Googled it in Berlin, while he was waiting to board. Forty minutes should be a cake walk; it takes longer to get from Seoul to Incheon without heavy traffic. But Jongdae is eyeing him like he knows...everything. And Chanyeol can already tell this drive is going to stretch on forever, if he doesn't spit it out.  
  
So he starts from the very beginning.  
  
  
  
  
After breakfast and a shower does come bed.  
  
The hotel is a private villa-type establishment just off Piazza Navona, with a courtyard and a small fountain, archaic tiling and al fresco eating. His room reflects the same old world air. Wrought-iron bed, free-standing tub, a writing desk turned towards the window. Chanyeol loves everything the moment he lays eyes on it. He just. Needs. Sleep.  
  
His friends leave the hotel to get in some site-seeing after they've all shared a meal.  
  
"We'll talk more later," Jongdae had said before Chanyeol shut himself into his quarters. Sunyoung and Song Qian had petted him goodbye, and the guys had both hugged him, crowing about how great it was to be all together again.  
  
Chanyeol hadn't missed the confusion in Yixing's eyes, though. And there, on Jongdae's face, the concern that had never left since the moment Chanyeol explained himself to them in that little rental car. He'd felt so exposed, so unfathomably vulnerable. A bit of a fraud. But then Jongdae'd said, "It's fine, man. No big deal." And the writer had taken comfort in the sentiment, however cautiously shared.  
  
He gets into bed just after noon. He knows he'll regret it tomorrow when the jetlag from all the other cities hits him hard, at an inopportune moment. But he's just  _drained_ \--physically, mentally, emotionally. He can barely get into his sleeping clothes without wobbling. His eyes shut on command the moment his head sinks into his pillow, and for hours, he is cradled by blessed, dreamless slumber.  
  
  
  
  
The knocking on his door is what finally rouses him. It's not quite dark out, not quite light, either--just a wash of pink that's somewhere in between day and night. A chill filters through the window, proof that it really  _is_ fall, in spite of the daytime camouflage. Chanyeol's fallen asleep on top of his duvet. Now, he shivers.  
  
He switches on a lamp, raking a hand through his hair. It feels like a haystack. It's getting much too long.  
  
The knocking commences--one, two, three.  
  
"Hold on," Chanyeol croaks, padding to the door.  
  
He undoes the bolts. He turns the handle. The door is an antique, gorgeously carved and practically perfumed with an old oak smell. It creaks on its hinges when he pulls it open.  
  
His heart jumps to his throat.  
  
Jongin.  
  
All rumpled clothes and floppy hair and beautiful rose gold skin.  
  
His Jongin.  
  
"Shit," is the first word out of the dancer's mouth. "Did I wake you?"  
  
Chanyeol grabs him by the coat and wraps him in a bone-crunching embrace.  
  
"Do you even know what it means to keep in touch?" Chanyeol grunts. "Why didn't you reply to any of my messages?"  
  
The dancer's shoulder blades are digging into his forearm. Jongin smells like airplane and unwashed hair, and there's a static charge in his clothes, crackling against Chanyeol's own.  
  
God, Chanyeol's missed him.  
  
"What time is it?" Chanyeol asks, not even waiting for a reply. The exhilaration is rippling over his skin. "Seven? Eight? I thought you were coming in at midnight--"  
  
"I caught an earlier flight, hyung." Jongin's voice is a salve over a wound. "Wanted to see you."  
  
Chanyeol's dropping a kiss to his forehead before he even realizes what he's doing.  
  
_Oh._  That's the sound Jongin makes, or maybe the word he utters, or maybe just the melody of his gasp.  
  
The writer's breath has stilled in his throat. He loosens his hold, struggling for the best, most fitting words.  
  
Jongin's fingers curl into the sides of Chanyeol's shirt. "Let's go somewhere."  
  
Their faces are so close. Chanyeol blinks, heavy as syrup, and he feels himself nod.  
  
Jongin steps back so they can look at each other properly. "Can we go now? It isn't too far from here--maybe twenty minutes? I looked it up on Google Maps."  
  
That cuts through the tension in a nanosecond.  
  
Chanyeol actually laughs out loud. He'd thought Jongin had meant it metaphorically--a kind of come-on (the idea of which Chanyeol had liked). He didn't realize Jongin had a specific  _destination_ in mind.  
  
"What?" the dancer frowns. They're still standing in the doorway to Chanyeol's room, and Jongin is just...so cute. "You don't want to go, hyung?"  
  
It brings back good memories, this sweet, melting feeling in Chanyeol's chest. He misses it--being in love. "Of course I do." He decides he's going to be a little more patient, just for a little while longer. "Let's go."  
  
In ten minutes, Chanyeol has washed the sleep from his face and rinsed it from his mouth and pushed it from his tired body with a set of warmer clothes. In fifteen minutes, Jongin makes it to the lobby in pretty much the same state--fresh jacket, fresh face. Or maybe that's just the thrill of the moment that Chanyeol spies in his cheeks. He doesn't ask.  
  
It's charming--romantic, even--the way Jongin takes charge. He leads them through the piazza, past half-empty cafes and vendors folding up their stalls for the evening; winding around the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, the fountain of the four rivers, like he knows exactly where he's going. He looks over his shoulder with a shy smile as Chanyeol slows, just for a second, to peek at the face of the Nile river god, hidden under a cowl.  
  
Then it's on to a sequence of cobbled streets and little walkways,  _vias_ and  _corsos_ whose names Chanyeol can't pronounce. And somewhere within the maze, it is Jongin who slows to take Chanyeol's hand, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket alongside his own.  
  
They're holding hands in Rome, in the autumn, with the wind chill seeping through Chanyeol's cable knit sweater and dust kicking up over the cobblestones. "Where are we going?" he asks calmly, like this isn't the most bizarre, unimaginable thing that's ever happened to him.  
  
Jongin's answer is simple: "You'll see." Chanyeol can barely hear him over the wind and the cars. He just reads Jongin's lips and ekes out a handsome smile in return.  
  
Objectively speaking, their destination isn't as close as Jongin's made it out to be. They must change streets about a dozen times. Some of these streets stretch into main roads; others meander uphill. Chanyeol's feet get somewhat sore from the unevenness of the flagstones. But twenty-five minutes never felt so brief.  
  
They're on the Via della Greca, a road with a park on one side and a church on the other, when Jongin says, "We're here, hyung."  
  
Chanyeol cranes his head back to see the bell tower of the church. It looks familiar...  
  
"Was this in a movie?"  
  
" _Roman Holiday._ " Jongin peers into his face, resisting a smile. "And  _Only You,_  with--"  
  
"Robert Downey, Jr.," Chanyeol continues, nodding slowly. "And Marisa Tomei." He knows  _exactly_ where they are now. His heart throbs with expectation. "Are we here to see the Mouth of Truth, Jongin?"  
  
The way the manboy looks at him makes Chanyeol feel--how was it that Joonmyun had put it? Ah, yes. Golden. "You know it?"  
  
"Yes." Chanyeol squeezes his hand momentarily before unlacing their fingers. "Yes, I do."  
  
There's a small gate leading into the portico of the church. Chanyeol reckons it's locked. It must be way past visiting hours now. But no--no, it latches open when he tries it, easily giving way.  
  
They slip past the gate, taking care to be quiet. Their footsteps whisper against the stone floor as they traverse the passage. There, at the very end of it, observing them from the far wall, is the Bocca della Verità. An ancient sculpture of a god-sized face--two holes for eyes, a patrician nose, two dents for nostrils, a flowing beard. And the pièce de résistance: a hollow, expressionless mouth, wide open, leading who-knows-where.  
  
The mouth of truth.  
  
"I've read the new book," Jongin says. They've come to a stop in front of the sculpture. "You dedicated it to me."  
  
Chanyeol regards him with dulcet eyes. This place feels sacred. "I did."  
  
"Please tell me why." Jongin's gaze is unwavering. "And don't leave anything out this time."  
  
_Place your hand in the mouth of truth,_  the legend goes,  _and whoever tells a lie will have that hand bitten off._  
  
Chanyeol smiles at the dancer, tiny but true, and slides his hand into the hole in the wall.  
  
"I think you know," Chanyeol says, his heart a hummingbird, "how I feel about you."  
  
Jongin's face caves in the center, like he's just had a ten-story building lifted off his shoulders. The ecstasy of relief. "Do I?"  
  
"I've fallen in love with you," Chanyeol confesses. Inside the mouth of truth, his hand shakes. "I fell in love with you months ago, when you came to live with me. I'm still in love with you now, even though you're spoken for."  
  
Jongin's throat works. "I broke up with someone for you." His eyelids quaver, but he doesn't break eye contact. "I'm not spoken for, hyung."  
  
Chanyeol pulls his hand out of the Bocca della Verità and cups the other over Jongin's cheek just as the dancer shuts his eyes.  
  
The kiss is not their first--only feels like it. It starts out chaste; a tender press of closed mouths, the percussion of quickening heartbeats. But Jongin moans a little, yanking Chanyeol close by the front of his sweater, and that's when the dam breaks. Chanyeol parts his lips, and the dancer does the same, so they can pour all their unspoken secrets into this whitewater river of longing and desire. Everything is sweet and strong and soft and seductive and so very, very deep. A rare wine swirling in Chanyeol's mouth and mind, until he's drunk on it.  
  
Jongin pulls off way before Chanyeol's done with him. He pushes himself deeper into Chanyeol's arms, tangling his own around the writer's body. "So...you like me a lot."  
  
Chanyeol kisses the side of his neck. "Yes."  
  
"I can't believe it," the dancer murmurs, and Chanyeol captures his mouth again. Jongin chuckles into the kiss, only to pull off once more. Chanyeol tries to chase him, but Jongin keeps them forehead to forehead. "I made you like men?"  
  
Resignation and affection blend in Chanyeol's sigh. "You made me love you."  
  
Jongin nuzzles their noses together. "You're deadly, hyung. You always say the perfect things. I go over our conversations in my head, again and again, just to remember."  
  
"Next time," Chanyeol says, "tell me what you liked, and I'll say it as often as you want."  
  
"You're  _killing_ me." Jongin hides his face in Chanyeol's shoulder. His ears are bright pink. "And Jongdae-hyung's going to kill us both."  
  
Chanyeol laughs, wonderfully light, blissful and free. He traces the shell of Jongin's ear with his lips and says, with all the love in his heart, "I've got you, Baryshnikov."  
  
  
  
  
_Spin_ 's final chapter finds the protagonist on a glittering stage. He feels as though he's lived three lifetimes. The one where he protects himself and prospers--peace and quiet, perfect health. The one where he risks and hits rock bottom, only to be resuscitated by real, devastating love. And then there's the waking life, right now, no fantasies, where he waits in the wings until the final moment to decide which dream to pursue.  
  
The novel ends with him taking the leap--a  _grand jeté_  to beat all  _grand jetés_ \--the crowd on its feet and his future glinting in the distance.  
  
The dedication page bears five words. Typeface Didot. Font size 12. No header. Just a promise.

 

  
_For Jongin  
No matter what_

  
  
  
  
The Roman holiday lasts ten days.  
  
Jongdae starts eyeing them funny on the second day, whispering into Sunyoung's ear, their smiles brimming with indulgence. Yixing's looking over by day three, a little more curl in his mouth, a little less confusion in his eyes. That same night, Song Qian blurts out, "Okay, am I missing something here?"  
  
Chanyeol explains. Jongin holds his hand under the table. The girls get a little teary-eyed. They've known Chanyeol a long time, and it's a lot to take in.  
  
Song Qian bats Yixing away when he asks if making out will help her feel better.  
  
"I'm proud of you," she tells Chanyeol. "You of all people deserve to be happy." She's always been elegant, Song Qian--so incredibly understanding. "Will you tell Soojung?"  
  
Chanyeol squeezes Jongin's fingers. "Soon."  
  
"Take your time," Jongin murmurs, squeezing back.  
  
Jongdae reaches over to muss his hair. "You dark horse," he teases his cousin, nasal-voiced and crescent-eyed. "After everything this tortured writer bastard put you through?"  
  
Chanyeol pretends to slap his wrist.  
  
"That's okay," Jongin smiles, loving and forgiving. "I've got a high threshold for pain."  
  
  
  
  
Well into the evening, when he can't sleep, Jongin invites himself into Chanyeol's bed. They lay there in the blue night, looking at each other. Chanyeol strokes the younger man's face. He knows for certain that he'll want to do more in the future. For now, they can take it slow.  
  
"Hyung?" The word is a piece of candy rolling off of Jongin's tongue.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"When we get back to Seoul..." Jongin licks the edge of his lip. Chanyeol pecks it immediately after, hoping to soothe his nerves. "When we get back to Seoul, will we..."  
  
"We'll still be us," Chanyeol replies, reading his mind. "And I'll still be yours. If you want me to be."  
  
The light in Jongin's face comes like the dawn. A slow-blooming rose--then suddenly, sunshine.  
  
"Yeah," the dancer whispers. "That's exactly what I want."  
  
He places something on Chanyeol's pillow, right in between them. He's been holding it in his hand since Chanyeol let him into the room. The dancer brushes his fingertips over Chanyeol's lips. It tickles. Chanyeol blows on the pads of them, just to flirt.  
  
He examines the gift. When he realizes what it is, the breath whooshes out of his lungs. "You--"  
  
"It's the first thing you gave me," Jongin explains. "I couldn't throw it out."  
  
There, on the pillow, is a small piece of plaster. It's semi-rectangular in shape; a little cracked, a little smudged, just the way the debris of a broken cast should look. But Chanyeol can still make out the familiar characters, can still decipher the mobile number, can still feel the same grin on his face when he sees the tiny sunglasses doodled close to the edge.  
  
He'd scrawled it out in his own hand, after all. Green Sharpie.  
  
_This is Chanyeol-hyung. Don't forget~_  
  
Chanyeol traces the souvenir with a delicate touch. "You kept this?"  
  
Jongin nods. His voice comes out husky. So damn bashful. "Now you can keep me."  
  
Chanyeol doesn't know how life will change when they get back home. He can't foretell the future or make dreams come to fruition. He's not a protagonist in a romance novel--invincible, unbreakable, beyond reproach. What Chanyeol  _is_ is a child at heart, devoted and true, simple in his love. And he's never forgotten the rule of the playground: finders keepers.  
  
"That's the plan," he tells the man in his life.  
  
He tucks Jongin's head under his chin (puppy fluff) and holds Jongin's heart in his hand (semi-rectangular), and they drift off at daybreak, when the moon prince kisses the sea queen goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> For the ballet scenes, do listen to [this Erik Satie compilation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DR2DbU5Uq-4) and Claude Debussy's ["Claire de Lune."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvFH_6DNRCY) :)
> 
> I think this is the fic that I'm most proud of, because it felt like I was writing about myself while fleshing out Chanyeol's parts. Writer problems!


End file.
